Lacewings and Boomslang
by Evandar
Summary: A series of requested drabbles. AUs, crossovers, multiple pairings - whatever people ask me for.
1. Hatchling

**Disclaimer:**I do not own _Harry Potter _or _Temeraire_ and I am making no profit from this story.

**AN:** I'm starting a drabble series in order to keep me writing on a regular basis. I've put a note up about this on my profile, but I'll stick it here as well. I'm looking to you guys for prompts. They can be any (preferably slash) pairings, AUs, kinks, cliches, whatever you want -the weirder or more wonderful the better. Crossovers are fine too, so long as I know the fandom - I'll only post for fandoms I know (obviously), so look at my profile and that should give you a clue. If there's something you want and I haven't already posted fic for it (e.g. _Temeraire, Fullmetal Alchemist, Saiyuki_) then feel free to ask if I know the fandom or submit more than one request. So if you want a drabble then please PM me or review with your request. I want to get these prompts and get started as soon as possible, so bring it on!

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><p><strong>sunsethill<strong> wanted a _Harry Potter/Temeraire_ crossover

Hatchling

by Evandar

"Well, it's not exactly common knowledge, but dragons _were_ used in the Napoleonic wars as weapons. They would magically bind themselves to a person while still in the egg, and that person would then become their pilot and companion. But it got so dangerous that the Ministry decided on a mass obliviate, destroyed all the records in the Muggle world – _yes_ Ronald, Muggles could be chosen as well, _honestly_ – and the tradition was stopped."

Harry stared at her. "Um," he said. Norbert nudged his fingers and chirruped and he found himself scratching the little dragon's head automatically. He stopped, only to be nudged and cooed at again until he gave in. "That's great, Hermione, really. But, uh…"

Norbert cheeped and clicked and flapped his wings a little. He was sitting on Hagrid's table still, shards of his egg lying around him. He'd only hatched a few minutes ago, and had so far spent his entire life trying to get Harry to pet him – like some sort of fire-breathing, scaly kitten. He was rather cute, Harry supposed, but that didn't mean there wasn't a problem.

"It's an honour, Harry," Hermione told him. "You should be flattered."

She was missing the point. _Entirely_. "Hermione, it's a _dragon_. Where on _earth_ am I supposed to keep it?"


	2. Turn the Sky

**917brat** wanted Charlie/creature!Harry

Turn the Sky

by Evandar

"His name's Harry."

The fiend hung upside down on the rock face, sharp claws gripping the stone easily while his wings spread – half unfurled – out behind him for balance. Fiends weren't an uncommon sight on dragon reserves. They were a humanoid species of dragon, after all, capable of human speech and highly intelligent. But this one, Charlie thought, was special somehow. Different. Maybe it was the shock of wild black hair on its head – the same colour as its scales – it had to be, since fiends didn't usually have hair at all.

"He's our mascot," Radu explained. "He was found abandoned not far from here and was raised by the keepers. He prefers humans to his own kind, so if he starts talking to you then…"

"Be nice?" Charlie suggested. He couldn't imagine being anything but.

"Yeah."

He watched as leathery black wings stretched out before Harry dropped from the cliff. He plummeted downwards before catching a thermal and riding it back up, twisting and turning elegantly in the sky. Charlie felt his breath catch in his throat. He was so beautiful – graceful and deadly and wickedly fast. And Charlie found himself hoping that once he'd settled in then maybe, _maybe,_ he'd have a chance to fly by the fiend's side.

He could think of nothing more perfect.


	3. Letter

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _Death Note_ and I am making no profit from this story.

**AN:** The response to this has been brilliant so far. Keep the ideas coming guys! Sorry to my anonymous reviewer who wanted crossovers with _Sailor Moon_ or _Dragonball Z_. Because I live under a rock, I'm not really familiar with either of those fandoms. If you fancy something else instead just let me know.

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><p><strong>Leaping Lion<strong> wanted a _Death Note/Harry Potter_ crossover with slash

Letter

by Evandar

Mello scowls and rips open the envelope, scrumpling it in his fist and dropping it to the floor. The letter inside is the same as always. _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted_ blah blah fucking blah. He doesn't care. All he wants is for these jerks to leave him alone.

There's a rustling behind him. Then a voice: soft and monotone and faintly American. "'Mr M Keehl, The Game Room, Wammy House Institute for Gifted Orphans, Winchester.' No stamp or post code…Mello has interesting stalkers."

Mello snorts. "It's from a school," he says, handing the letter over. He would try to hide it, but Near would have found out anyway, sneaky bastard that he is. "They've been hounding me for years."

"Witchcraft and Wizardry?" He can practically hear the raised eyebrow. He turns to look. It's there, along with an almost-expression of incredulity. It's the most inflection he's seen from Near _ever_. Damn sheepy robot…

"Magic or no magic," Near continues, settling back into his usual blank face. "Mello in mainstream education would be dangerous." Mello spots a faint twitch of the lips and figures that – in Near-world – the little guy is dying of laughter. "He might get bored enough to make napalm in the bathtubs. Again."

Mello shrugs. "Probably." He's feeling a bit wonky. Like he's just found out that the sky was green and that he's been colour blind all this time. It's Near's fault. The little bastard knows him better than he'd thought, and the tiny smile that keeps twitching at his lips is actually kind of cute. Damn. Since when is Near cute?

"Since now, apparently," Mello mutters, earning himself a weird look. He clears his throat and sits down, preparing to have a kind-of civil conversation with his surprisingly adorable rival. "I don't think wizards know what napalm is, though."

"Even more reason not to go," Near tells him, quite seriously, as if they've been debating this for a while and Mello's only just caught on to the fact. He hates that Near unsettles his equilibrium like this, and he'd deck the kid for it, but…nah. It would be like stamping on a kitten. Near's _that_ cute.

"I wasn't even considering it!" he snaps instead. "I've been telling them to fuck off for four years. I'm not going to go changing my mind now, idiot."

Near flushes and ducks his head and Mello instantly feels guilty. He can practically feel the self-loathing building up inside of him and he hates it. Hates it hates it hates it. But then Near speaks and it evaporates, leaving a warm sort of fuzziness in its wake.

"Good. Wammy House wouldn't be the same without Mello. You would be missed."


	4. Turn the Sky II

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and I am making no profit from this.

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><p><strong>SSC<strong> wanted a continuation of 'Turn the Sky'

Turn the Sky II: Dive into your Dreams

by Evandar

Charlie could have been Seeker for England. It was a well known fact in the Weasley family. Scouts from the national team had turned up at every single one of his matches in sixth and seventh year, and he'd been approached after graduation. He'd turned them down. Quidditch was great, but it was a hobby. Charlie loved flying, but he didn't want to do it for work.

He wanted to work with dragons.

He didn't think his parents would ever forgive him, let alone Ron.

But just because he hadn't made a career of it, it didn't mean he couldn't play. "This is a snitch," he explained, holding up the tiny golden ball in front of Harry. The fiend stared at it curiously, brilliant green eyes locking on to the shining metal – fiends, like all kinds of dragon, loved shiny things. A long, forked tongue slipped out from between his lips to taste the magic that lingered around it.

"It flies away from you and hides," Charlie said, trying desperately to focus on explaining the rules instead of on the young fiend. "Whoever catches it first wins the game."

Harry glanced away from the ball, looking up at Charlie's face and grinning. His teeth were long and razor sharp and – whether he meant it or not – a reminder that he was one of the greatest winged predators in existence. Charlie had chosen the worst opponent possible for this game. He would lose, and lose badly, and he knew it. He just didn't care. He just wanted to fly with Harry; see the fiend in action, up close.

He was fascinated. He couldn't help it. Harry had somehow become an obsession.

He held the snitch out, flat on his palm. Its wings uncurled and it launched itself upwards, circling them both before vanishing from sight.

"Ready?" he asked, grasping his broom.

Harry's wings snapped out and with three powerful beats, he was in the air. Charlie laughed. He'd take that as a yes.


	5. Raphaelite

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and I am making no profit from this.

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><p><strong>IkutoisSmexy<strong> wanted Harry/Salazar

Raphaelite

by Evandar

"Look at me."

It's a hazard of the job, that the clients might want to speak to him. Usually Harry's alright with that. You can learn a lot from portraits. They retain the memories of their living selves and watch the world go by for centuries. They're fascinating. But this one…

"What's wrong? Why don't you look?"

He forces himself to focus on his job. Aside from the talking, the client is well behaved. He remains perfectly still as Harry restores him to his former glory. Neat little brush strokes giving way to fingernails and fine stitching on emerald green robes.

"The current headmistress told me of you, you know. How you killed my Basilisk and defeated my heir – ended my family line. And yet here you are, painting away, afraid to even look at me."

Harry grits his teeth and tries to ignore him.

"And what's a man such as yourself – a vanquisher of Dark Lords – doing restoring old paintings for a living? Shouldn't you be off saving the world?"

That's a question he's used to. Harry doesn't need to look up at the client's face to answer it. "I've had enough of Dark wizards to last me a lifetime," he says. He's said it so many times that he's been known to mutter it in his sleep. _Everyone_ asks. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, McGonagall…and he's yet to be forgiven for not becoming an Auror. Hermione still shoves the pamphlets at him every time he goes round for dinner. 'The world needs you, Harry.'

"Ah," the painting says. He falls silent, and Harry misses the sound of his voice.

"Why the Basilisk?" he asks. "Why put the deadliest snake alive in a school?"

There's a faint sense of movement from the painting, as if its subject has just shrugged. "I didn't know it hatched," Slytherin says. "I left before it could – and I didn't actually think that it would. The ritual was so old, you see, and fragmented. The Greeks destroyed most of it after Harpo the Foul was defeated. The chamber was my laboratory, you know. It was Godric who gave it that ridiculous name."

Harry smiles almost against his will. Oddly, it's nice to know that – unlike his descendant – Slytherin wasn't a raging psychopath.

"Tell me, how do you plan to do this job correctly without looking at the whole?" It's just another way of asking Harry to look at him, but Harry doesn't mind so much now.

"Who says I don't?" he asks. "You're not always awake, you know. It's easier to study you when you're sleeping."

"Why?"

Harry feels a blush rise in his face and he turns away to clean his brushes. The smell of oil paint and turpentine must be getting to him, he thinks. He's thought that every time he's worked on this portrait – even when he hasn't actually been working.

"Mr Potter."

Slytherin definitely used to be a teacher. The way he uses his voice gives it away. Harry can imagine him snapping 'detention!' at students for messing around in class.

"How would you feel," he asks quietly, turning to look. "If the most beautiful man you'd ever met had been dead for a thousand years?"

Slytherin stares at him, painted green eyes going wide before he looks away. Black hair slips out of its painted ribbon to hide his face from Harry's sight.

"My apologies, Mr Potter," he says.

Harry picks up a new brush and steps forward. He mixes a tiny bit of Prussian blue and dabs it onto the slim column of Slytherin's neck, highlighting the shadows left by his hair. "Just stay still," he whispers.


	6. Bad Idea

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _Dresden Files_ and I am making no profit from this.

**AN:** I haven't read _Dresden Files _in about five years, seriously. This was kind of hard.

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><p><strong>jedielfsorcerer<strong> wanted a _Harry Potter/Dresden Files_ crossover

Bad Idea

by Evandar

It's somewhere beyond a stupid idea. Actually, it's almost a good one, having gone so far past stupid that it's approaching genius from the other side. Hermione would kill him, but that's not his problem. Not anymore. She's still mad at him for walking out on Britain – "Voldemort's dead, my work here is done. See you, guys." – and moving to the States. They haven't spoken in years.

Which is just as well, really, because once Harry was on his own and experimenting a bit, he figured that most of what they'd spent their time in Hogwarts learning was crap. Utter bollocks. Magic was all about intent. Flicking and swishing and correct incantations meant a grand total of jack shit in the long run, so long as what you were focussing on was what you wanted done. Fair enough, he wasn't so good at turning pineapples into earmuffs anymore, but how was that relevant to real life anyway?

His magic was better for the stuff he wanted to do: help people, protect them from the nasties that lurked in the dark and in peripheral vision. He'd defeated a Dark Lord with the disarming spell; he could damn well rely on a necklace and a zap and a pow to deal with everything else.

But that didn't change the fact that he needed to advertise. He had to keep paying for car repairs somehow. He needed to put himself out there. He needed to advertise – and not that he was Harry Potter.

And that was where the stupid came in.

_Harry Dresden – Wizard_

God but he loved the Yellow Pages.


	7. Regression

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and I am making no profit from this.

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><p><strong>kookookari<strong> wanted a Harry is Salazar fic

Regression

by Evandar

"Harry! Harry!"

Someone was tapping his face, shaking him, and calling him by the wrong damn name. Or the right one. Oh. He remembered. He was Harry Potter now, Boy-Who-Lived and Saviour of the Wizarding World. How sickening.

"Get off," he muttered.

"Oh! You're awake!"

He opened his eyes. Hermione was staring down at him, her big brown eyes wide with concern. Ron was there too, white faced and shaky.

"Harry, mate," he said. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." Better than ever. He was himself again. He was Salazar Slytherin. He couldn't quite believe that he hadn't figured it out before, even with the clues. Parseltongue turning up in a child unrelated to the Slytherin line? It was a magical gift – one born by the soul – there was no way that his foolish descendant could have 'passed it on' like some sort of common cold. Magic didn't work that way.

"You went all rigid and started shaking, mate. Then you just fell off your chair."

Because he hadn't realised he'd fallen when he'd woken up on the floor. What would he do without Ron Weasley to point out the obvious?

A tiny part of him felt guilty – the part that had spent ten years living with Muggles and then latched on to the first wizard to come his way and be nice to him. Ron wasn't a bad person, just slightly thick. Merlin, but he missed Godric. He forced himself to smile, though it probably turned out as more of a grimace.

"Dementors have more effect on people with troubled pasts," he said. "I heard –" Godric begging him to stay "don't be such an idiot Sal!" – "my mother." That was what they would expect, right? He watched their faces crumple into expressions of understanding and sorrow and felt another twinge of guilt that he firmly squashed before it could develop. He would give them what they wanted, keep them happy; the truth would only hurt them.


	8. Spiel Mit Mir

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this.

**Zoey Rowan** wanted creature!Neville/Draco

Spiel Mit Mir

by Evandar

He finds Longbottom playing the flute by the edge of the forest. He hadn't even known Longbottom could play, but apparently he can. Draco has been haunted by that melody for hours, even when he was in the dungeons.

He should report him. Umbridge would have a lot to say about a Gryffindor enchanting one of his better classmates, but for some reason Draco can't bring himself to.

"What the hell are you playing at, Longbottom?" he asks instead.

Longbottom lowers the flute and smiles up at him. The trees rustle and sway, and they sound oddly disappointed – like they wanted Longbottom to keep playing. The thought sends a shiver up Draco's spine.

"Not much," Longbottom replies. "I was just waiting for you to come and play."

The trees had already set him on edge. Now Draco was feeling completely paranoid. Those words remind him of something and he scowls at Longbottom, studying him closer. For the first time he takes note of the long, pointed ears and the extra joints in his fingers, and it's like a veil has been ripped away. It makes so much _sense_. It explains Longbottom's brilliance in Herbology when he fails at everything else: only wizards are meant to use wizards' magic.

But as enlightening as it is, Draco is scared. He knows exactly what 'playing' with an elf will entail – they aren't the harmless creatures of Muggle fiction, or anything at all like the House Elves.

He finds his voice and hates how shaky it sounds. "Get bent," he says. "I've read Goethe, you know. Filthy halfbreed."

Longbottom laughs at the slur and stands. Before Draco can blink there's an arm around his shoulders, holding him close.

"If you have read it," Longbottom murmurs, his breath ghosting over Draco's ear, "then you know what happens if you refuse." He laughs again and this time the trees laugh with him; he smells sweet like honey and Draco can feel his resistance fading.

"The things I would give you, dear Malfoy," Longbottom whispers.

"Shut up," Draco whispers back.

He turns his head to look straight into Longbottom's eyes. They're warm and brown and oddly kind. He swallows nervously.

"You never would have heard the call if you didn't want to," Longbottom says. Draco can feel long fingers playing with the fine hair on the back of his neck. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't want to be."

"Shut. Up."

"So let me take care of you."

"And leave me dead?" Draco asks. His heart is in his throat. He's so close to saying yes. His world has shrunk down to the warmth of Longbottom's body pressed against his own and the gentle touch of those fingers in his hair. His parents' warnings – "elves are vile, dangerous creatures that devour the souls of children after stealing them away" – are fading from his mind when confronted with the honesty in Longbottom's eyes. He's always known Longbottom couldn't lie to save his life, but apparently there's a reason for it. Elves never lie.

"No," Longbottom says. "Not you." He kisses Draco so softly that Draco thinks he imagines it, until he licks his lips and tastes honey. His breath catches.

"Come play with me, dear Draco." Longbottom's nose brushes against his own. "Come with me and say you're mine."

"Yes."


	9. Raphaelite II

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this.

**Scurryfunger** wanted a continuation of Raphaelite

Raphaelite II: Clandestine

by Evandar

"You're so much better at this than Godric," Harry muses, dabbing paint carefully on Salazar's lips, returning them to their previous rosy hue. An eyebrow raises in question and Harry chuckles softly. "He fidgets."

He removes his brush. It's time to add more definition to Salazar's eyes. He's almost finished and he finds he doesn't really want to be. But he's been letting this job drag on long enough and McGonagall's beginning to give him funny looks every morning when he comes in.

"We were painted from likeness, you know," Salazar says quietly, trying not to move his mouth too much while the paint is still wet. "He was like that in life; I can't imagine him being any different now."

"I lived in fear of him smudging himself," Harry admits. "He's McGonagall's favourite" – for obvious reasons, he thinks – "she would have gone spare."

Restoring the portraits of the Founders has been an adventure and a half. Lady Hufflepuff was warm and matronly with a wicked sense of humour; Lady Ravenclaw was ice-cold and disinterested (although, that did make her easier to paint – ignoring him didn't involve much movement) while Lord Gryffindor was too interested. He'd badgered Harry for every single detail of his adventures and fidgeted incessantly, reminding Harry of Colin Creevey.

He'd been relieved when Gryffindor was done.

He mixed green and blue to the colour of shadows in the Forbidden Forest and returned to the portrait. Slytherin was different from the others. He was fascinating, captivating and utterly beautiful. Hermione would despair of him for thinking the way that he did, but Harry didn't care. She despaired enough that he hadn't got back with Ginny.

Slytherin was perfectly still as Harry restored his eyes. Harry tried to work as quickly as he could. Being so close to Slytherin's canvas was painful, in a way, knowing that the subject could never step out of it like he wished he could.

He almost misses the whisper "take me with you". He lowers his brush, not wanting to ruin his work with shaking hands.

"What?"

"Take me with you, when you go. I've left this school once before, and the Headmistress will no doubt be glad to see the back of me."

Harry feels his heart break, but knows he can't refuse. "Okay." Because being near Slytherin might be painful, but leaving him would be worse.


	10. Cruel to be Kind

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _Twilight_ and am making no profit from this.

**AN:** Okay guys, I'm up for anything once. But please, no more _Twilight_, I beg you.

**sunsethill** wanted a _Harry Potter/Twilight_ crossover

Cruel to be Kind

by Evandar

It's gone on long enough. Harry doesn't want to be the evil stepfather, but Charlie refuses to talk to her – doesn't really know how, Harry suspects – and someone really has to. She's barely eating, her sleep is disturbed by nightmares, and she doesn't go out or talk or do anything that teenagers should do. She just sits in her room and lets her heart break and her life fall apart and, frankly, Harry's sick of it. He would obliviate her if he thought it would work, but it wouldn't. Even if he did remove all traces of the vampire from her mind, it wouldn't stop her feeling the way she does – love is too powerful and tricky an emotion to be taken away by a removal of memories.

He watches Bella from the doorway and wishes that he could relate to her better. She's never been fond of him. She seemed frankly disturbed by him when they first met – apparently she believed that her father's lover should be an older female rather than a man barely a few years older than herself. Barely older in age, Harry thought privately, but light-years ahead in mentality.

He sighs softly and steps into the room. Regardless of her distain for him, he has to do something. Watching Bella fall apart is breaking Charlie's heart, and Harry would die before he let that happen. As it is, he's just going to channel Snape as best he can and hope that the adage 'cruel to be kind' has a basis in truth.

"Do you think ruining your life like this is what he would want?" he asks. She doesn't look at him. "Oh, sorry, of course it is. He left you." He knows he sounds petty, but he doesn't know how not to be. Bella and her vampire rub him up the wrong way. It's like he's sucked all the character out of her and left her an insipid waste of air. "But, you know, all you're doing is proving him right. That he was right to leave you behind. You can't even get dressed in the mornings, let alone defend yourself from others of his kind."

She looks up at him, finally. Judging from the expression on her face, she doesn't know whether to be shocked or angry. Harry feels bizarrely relieved. She's not moping anymore, and that's a huge improvement already.

"You look pathetic," he tells her bluntly. Her jaw drops. "Sorry, sweetheart, but it's true. You think if he comes back then he'd be interested in you? Like you are now?"

"What would you know?" she mutters.

He shrugs. "I am male, you know. Most guys have the basics in common, no matter what species they are, and trust me: angst and self-loathing are the least attractive things on the planet, and any guy who does find them attractive isn't worth your time." He looks down at her and feels his lip curl into a sneer. It's an expression lifted right off Snape, one he's had directed at himself more times than he can count – and it works just as well on her. She actually flinches.

"Get a life, Bella," he tells her. "Go outside. Talk to people. I've been reliably informed that there are, in fact, people out there who don't think you're a waste of oxygen so why not try and find them?" He looks away from her and catches sight of Charlie's reflection in her bedroom window. He winces internally. There'll probably be words exchanged over this.

He sighs again. "I know it hurts to lose someone, and I know that when it happens all you want to do is curl up in a ball of anger and hurt, but you can't. Because if you do, you'll just end up alone. Forever. Because the world doesn't wait for you to get over them." He thinks of Cedric and Sirius and snapping at Ron and Hermione for not understanding.

"Look at it this way," he says, "wherever he is, he's alive." Sort of. "Which makes you a damn sight better off than some people."

He leaves her then, and Charlie follows him downstairs. "That was harsh, don't you think?" Charlie asks once they're in the kitchen. Harry fills the kettle and puts it on. Charlie leans on the counter next to him.

"She makes my inner feminist scream in horror," Harry tells him – honestly. It sounds like Hermione. "And besides, sympathy isn't getting her back on track." He holds up a hand to stop Charlie's protests. "We've tried that already. I know it was cruel, but she doesn't like me anyway, and one day – with any luck – she might actually appreciate it."

They're interrupted by Bella stalking out of the house, fully dressed for the first time in months; her long hair pulled back and a touch of mascara on her lashes. Charlie's eyebrows raise.

"I know I do," he says.


	11. Perfect

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this.

**Lireach** wanted Bill/Harry

Perfect

by Evandar

He can see why Ron is jealous of Bill. He's intelligent, talented and gorgeous – one of those people who becomes naturally what everyone else can only aspire to be. Harry would be jealous as well, if it weren't for the way Bill looks at him over the dinner table, catching his eye and winking while Mrs Weasley begs him to do something about the ponytail. He knows that Bill is flirting with him and while part of him thinks it's weird – Bill is a man and his best friend's older brother, at that – he's actually quite flattered. And it's less awkward than Ginny's doe-eyed attempts at catching his attention. Bill is smart and sophisticated and just a little bit wild, and there's something about him that makes Harry want to lean into him and let himself be held. He wants Bill to want him; he wants Bill to hold him in his arms and snog him senseless, so he starts flirting back.

Hermione catches on to what he's doing immediately and watches with narrowed eyes, but she doesn't try to stop him. Ron is clueless as always. Percy and Ginny are oblivious. Charlie, Fred and George figure it out, but their only reactions are to egg Harry on with grins and thumbs-up.

It's one hell of a confidence booster.

It's the night before the World Cup, and he catches Bill sitting on the grass, having a sneaky cigarette in the back garden. They sit together in silence for a while, watching white smoke rising to the moon.

"Mum would kill me if she found out," Bill says, and Harry's not sure he's talking about the cigarette, although Mrs Weasley would definitely disapprove of that too. His suspicions are confirmed when Bill speaks up again. "You're way too young, so she says, and besides, there's this grand fantasy about you marrying Ginny and popping out a ton of grandkids."

Harry wrinkles his nose. "What if I don't want Ginny?" he asks. "That's my decision, isn't it?"

"It should be."

Harry finds Bill's hand in the grass and covers it with his own. Then he reaches up with his other hand and steals the cigarette from Bill's lips. He holds it awkwardly, trying not to burn himself as he leans in closer. Bill meets him half-way. He tastes of smoke and the roast beef they had for dinner and it's the most amazing thing Harry has ever experienced. Bill shifts and cups the back of Harry's head with his hand, tangling his fingers into Harry's hair.

Harry lets himself be guided down onto the ground, Bill above him. When they break apart for air, Bill's smiling down at him and Harry can't help but grin back even though he knows he probably looks like a complete dope.

Regardless of what Mrs Weasley thinks, kissing Bill is as perfect as he thought it would be.


	12. Second Chance

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and I am making no profit from this.

**kookookarli** wanted a Harry/Tom Riddle timetravel fic

Second Chance

by Evandar

Bad things happen to wizards who meddle with time.

But, Harry supposed, bad things would have happened to him anyway. He was a Horcrux, and the only way to change that was for him to die. Professor Dumbledore had said so, so he had to be right. Didn't he?

Not quite.

Harry let his head fall back to bear more of his throat and raised a hand to tangle his fingers in dark curls as a slick tongue traced its way down his jugular. There had been another way. An infinitely more preferable way, considering he was now neither a Horcrux nor on Voldemort's hit list. Going back in time had solved the problem of his scar, and Tom Riddle definitely wasn't interested in killing him anymore. All he'd needed was a second chance.

Licking changed to soft kisses and Harry whimpered. "Tom. Please."

The once and future Dark Lord grinned against his neck before pulling away. He was flushed and his dark eyes were shining with pleasure. He rested his forehead against Harry's own, touching the tips of their noses together, and Harry held him close.

Voldemort would never be born. Harry had defeated the Dark Lord with a time turner and the power of love and no one would ever know about it. He tilted his head and kissed Tom tenderly.

Good things could come to those who meddled with time. Sometimes.


	13. Turn the Sky III

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this.

**dArK-dAeMoIs-DeA** wanted a continuation of 'Turn the Sky'

Fall into your Grace

by Evandar

Giving his parents and little sister a tour of the reserve had been nice. Yes, his Mum had pleaded with him to come home and take a more respectable job, but in the end even she had been able to appreciate the scenery and the majesty of the dragons that roamed the surrounding mountains.

"It's just so isolated," she said, eyeing the burn paste on Charlie's arm from an incident earlier in the week. "You'll never find a nice girl here."

Charlie hadn't introduced them to Harry. He'd been acting strangely territorial lately, hissing and snapping at some of the other keepers. And while he was sure it was just a phase Harry was going through, there was no way in hell he was going to risk his family. There was a reason why the most dangerous fire charm was called 'Fiendfyre', after all.

So he just shrugged off his mother's concerns and told her that he was happy, and left it at that for the rest of the holiday.

Harry glared at him when he first came to visit after they were gone.

"Don't be mad," Charlie said.

Harry hissed, baring his teeth, and turned away. Charlie stepped closer and received a tail swipe for the effort. He sighed.

"You've been so grumpy lately. My sister's ten. She's got nowhere near enough self preservation to not bug you, and I didn't want her set on fire."

Harry's wings raised, hiding him from view. It was like talking to a ball of leather.

Charlie sat next to him on the cliff edge and tried not to look down. He wasn't scared of heights by any means, but that didn't mean he wanted to look at a hundred foot vertical drop, particularly when he was sat next to a cranky Fiend.

"I did miss you, Harry," he said.

"Really?"

"Of course," he said. The wings lowered hesitantly and big green eyes peered at him. Harry was scared, he realised, but damn if he knew why. He reached out a hand and tugged on a lock of coarse hair. "What's wrong, Harry?"

Harry shrugged and looked away.

"Tell me."

"Thought you didn't want me anymore."

Charlie raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know you were mine," he said. Harry's wild. He wouldn't know how to be otherwise, and Charlie sure as hell hadn't been trying to domesticate him. It would destroy him.

A forked tongue flicked out. "Thought you wanted me. But then you went away. Thought I didn't understand." He frowned and flicked his tongue again. "Humans are strange."

Charlie thought furiously. He'd spent a lot of time with Harry, true. More than anyone else did, certainly. They'd flown together and – ah. He'd been a complete idiot. Fiends were solitary creatures in general, and only flew with their mates or offspring. That explained why Harry had been so aggressive lately, when he'd seen Charlie with other keepers. He'd courted Harry without even realising it and –

"Crap," he said. "Harry, I'm sorry."

Harry huddled further down into himself, but when he tried to shield himself with his wings again, Charlie stopped him, pushing the leathery appendages aside and scooting closer.

"I didn't realise," he said. "I'm sorry I made you think I'd changed my mind." He pressed his lips to Harry's warm, scaly cheek. "Will you forgive me?"

Harry chirped and reached up, holding Charlie close with a clawed hand. He nuzzled Charlie's hair gently, and Charlie felt himself relax. He'd take that as a yes.


	14. Glacial

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _InuYasha_ and am making no profit from this.

**Sakamoto Itoe** wanted a _Harry Potter/InuYasha_ crossover with Harry/Sesshoumaru

Glacial

by Evandar

Harry was beginning to think that the 'reliable information' provided to him by the Ministry had been a load of crap. It was a shame, really. He'd been willing to give them the benefit of the doubt this time, since Hermione had verified it, but no. Apparently she was wrong too.

'Violent, ravening beast' was _not_ a good description of Lord Sesshoumaru.

It may be, Harry supposed, if the youkai ever lost his temper. As it was, Harry wasn't entirely sure that he even had a personality beyond 'glacial'. Harry was pretty sure the cure to global warming was hidden in the frosty looks Lord Sesshoumaru bestowed upon everything that so much as _breathed_ in his presence.

Harry would have been angered by it – he'd always had a low tolerance for arrogant bastards, after all – if he hadn't come into the room expecting find magical Japan being run by something Hagrid would have found adorable. He was actually kind of relieved.

But that didn't mean the diplomatic talks were going well. His fellow emissaries were too scared to do anything but jibber incoherently and complain behind closed doors, and Harry was possibly the least diplomatic person on earth. He didn't know how to _not_ step on peoples' last nerves – as evidenced by Snape, his boss, and every other person in the Auror department. It was no wonder that relations with Japan were tense, if _they_ were the best the Ministry could be bothered to send.

It didn't help that he couldn't stop staring at Lord Sesshoumaru's hair. It was just so shiny! And there was so much of it, and Harry couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like – just like he couldn't help wondering if diplomatic relations might be improved by shagging Lord Sesshoumaru into whatever hard surface was handy at the time.

It certainly couldn't make things worse.

It was unfair, Harry thought, to be subjected to the company of absolute morons – and therefore associated with them – while trying not to think about what the Japanese Minister looked like naked. It wasn't his fault that the lavish clothes Lord Sesshoumaru wore left so much to the imagination; just like it wasn't his fault that the magenta stripes on the youkai's face were hypnotising or that the British Ministry were so shit scared of having to deal with youkai on the political scene that they appeared to be trying to start a war out of sheer ignorance.

Lord Sesshoumaru wasn't even looking at them anymore. Cripslow was wittering on about trade, apparently oblivious to the fact that he'd lost his audience, and that Lord Sesshoumaru found his own claws a more interesting alternative to anything he had to say.

Harry wondered what kind of youkai he was. Hermione had 'reliably informed' him that there was more than one species, and if it was true, Harry kind of wanted to find out. He hated mysteries remaining unsolved. He'd heard rumours that he was some sort of dog, but he couldn't picture it. Cat, maybe. Dogs just didn't have the kind of bone-deep self-assured superiority complex that radiated from Lord Sesshoumaru's very soul.

Cripslow eventually stammered to a halt and Harry couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. He wasn't surprised that Lord Sesshoumaru was bored: Cripslow could put Professor Binns into a state of torpor.

Lord Sesshoumaru's retainer – a leathery little creature that looked more toad-like than Umbridge – cleared his throat. "I think that's enough for this morning." He glanced over at his master, who was still studying the elegant points of his claws, which were shining faintly green.

The delegates couldn't get out of the room fast enough. Harry lagged behind, glancing back over his shoulder as he followed. Golden eyes stared back at him, completely apathetic. Harry winced.

While it wouldn't make things worse, there was no way in hell he was going to get close enough to try.


	15. Letter II

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _Death Note_ and am making no profit from this.

**Leaping Lion** wanted more _Harry Potter/Death Note_

Letter II: Educational Decree

by Evandar

It isn't often that children turn down the chance to go to Hogwarts, so Albus can't stop himself from being curious. Mihael Keehl has been turning down his invitations for four years; his guardian has been firm in not allowing Hogwarts professors access in order to change his mind. The boy is a complete mystery.

It is one good thing to come from the educational decrees that the Ministry has been enforcing, he thinks. He will finally get to meet the boy who has denied himself the chance of learning magic for so long.

Quillsh Wammy, the boy's guardian, has been less than helpful, however, refusing to make any sort of statement or excuse for the child's behaviour. Albus wasn't sure what to make of him. Surely Wammy should want the best for a child under his care?

The witch sent along by the Ministry, dear Miss Merryweather, looked as perturbed as he felt. He offered her a lemon drop.

Wammy leads them through a labyrinth of corridors – not as confusing as Hogwarts' own, but a fair attempt for a Muggle institution – to a room filled with toys. A small boy in white is building a tower out of cards. Another boy is sprawled on the floor next to him, reading.

"Mello," Wammy says.

The reading boy looks up, and Albus feels his breath catch. The boy has golden blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes, and he looks startlingly like a young Gellert Grindelwald.

"Yeah?"

His voice is different. It's smoother somehow. Gellert always had a clipped, Germanic accent, while the boy seems more English.

"These people are from Hogwarts."

"The fuck?" He pushes himself up, resting his weight on one hand while the other hovers uncertainly in front of him, as if he's not sure whether or not to draw his wand. He isn't reprimanded for the cussing, and he continues before anyone can try. "What the hell is wrong with you people?" There's a slight hint of a 'v' around his 'w's. "Can't you take no for an answer?"

It's the Ministry witch who finds her voice first. "The Ministry has decreed that all Wizarding children shall attend registered magical institutions until they are either of age or have completed their schooling to a level the Ministry deems acceptable."

The white haired boy glances at them briefly. A brief flash of a smirk twists his lips before he looks away again, dismissing them.

Keehl leans forward. "And what would be the accepted level?" he asks.

"Completion of at least five NEWT courses."

His eyebrows raise. "That's it?" He laughs, loud and wild and so similarly to Gellert that Albus feels his heart ache at the sound. "Didn't you people even look at your records before coming here? Holy shit, man."

His laughter breaks off and he sighs and grins, before sinking back to the floor. He tugs on the white-haired boy's pyjamas. "They're so fucking stupid."

Albus frowns. "What do you mean?" he asks.

Keehl gives him a cold look, completely out of tune with the rest of his body language. "I mean that I've been studying long-distance at Durmstrang for the last four years, and that I just finished my NEWTS and got the results. Eight O's, thanks for asking. It should be in my file in the Ministry, under the immigration section – just in case you misplaced it – wherever the fuck you put Swiss people. And just think: you've wasted so much time and effort and parchment by not _fucking_ looking properly in the first place."

He slumps back onto the carpet. "Now shoo." He waves his hand dismissively. "And leave me the hell alone, already."


	16. Snitch

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this.

**Lireach** wanted Viktor/Harry

Snitch

by Evandar

" I vish, perhaps, to fly vith you."

Harry felt his jaw drop. It was the first time one of the older champions had mentioned his performance in the first task, or even considered that he might have some sort of skill. Cedric kept on giving him sheepish smiles but no attempt at conversation, and Fleur still to think he was a little boy – albeit a little boy with uncanny luck.

"You vere impressive – very impressive – against ze dragon."

Not to mention, his flying ability was being complimented by the youngest professional Seeker in the world. Harry could feel his heart racing, hear it pounding in his ears – for some reason he felt even more nervous than he had been before the damn Horntail.

"Uh," he said. It wasn't the most intelligent response he could have given and he cringed at the sound of it. Krum appeared to be waiting for something. Probably fanboy gushing, if the rest of the Wizarding population was any example. "I'd like that," Harry said. "Thanks."

Ron was going to kill him – all this after he'd only just got over his fit of jealousy. Harry resigned himself to being glared at and sulked at for the near future. Ron might have a problem with it, but there was no way he would give this chance up for the world.

He'd made the right decision. Krum was brilliant. All of the awkwardness he displayed while on the ground vanished as soon as he kicked off into the air. Harry found himself hard pressed to keep up, not to mention keep an eye out for the practise Snitch they had released. He ended up losing horribly – amateur Quidditch at school was a long way from professional leagues, after all – but he'd loved every minute of it.

Krum gave him an odd look as he pulled up alongside Harry in the air, the Snitch still in his grasp.

"You are happy," he said.

Harry realised he was grinning like a complete lunatic and ducked his head in embarrassment. "I love flying," he mumbled. "It's –"

"Magic," Krum finished for him.

Harry looked up at him in surprise only to find Krum grinning back at him, a look of complete understanding in his eyes.

Harry blushed. "Yeah."


	17. Touch

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or the legend of _Beowulf_ and am making no profit from this.

**WizardsGirl** wanted a _Harry Potter/Beowulf _crossover

Touch

by Evandar

Valhalla was a place for heroes and warriors. It was a place of feasting and drinking and beautiful Valkyries fulfilling their every whim.

Harry didn't care much for the food. He'd had things just as good at Hogwarts feasts and there was no treacle tart – though the hog roast was truly excellent. He wasn't exactly big on drinking either, or on busty blondes in revealing armour.

His afterlife would have been distinctly unimpressive – there's only so many times he could sit through drunken revels listening to acts of legend (presumably described with more swearing and slurring than he'd previously thought possible)related in languages he couldn't understand without going crazy – if it wasn't for _him_.

Beowulf. He was _gorgeous_. Harry couldn't even look at him without wanting to lick his biceps.

It was lucky for him, then, that Beowulf seemed to return the attraction. At least, he paid more attention to Harry than he did anyone else, even the Valkyries. He had a habit of touching Harry's face, just under his left eye when they were talking – his fingertips were rough and calloused and wonderfully gentle – and of running his thumb over Harry's lower lip to stop him from chewing on it.

It was a pity that whenever either of them spoke, it resulted in absolute confusion.

Harry was beginning to get an idea of how Hermione had managed to have a relationship with Krum despite the language barrier. He would find himself leaning into Beowulf's caresses and running his hands over scars and firm muscles. Touch, it seemed, was a universal language.


	18. Entail

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this.

**IkutoisSmexy** wanted Regulus/Harry

Entail

by Evandar

It was common knowledge that Regulus Black had been killed by the Dark Lord, which was why it was such a shock when he turned up for Sirius' will reading.

Harry had seen a couple of pictures of him around Grimmauld Place and he'd always thought that Regulus was the ugly duckling of the Black brothers. Not that he was in the slightest bit ugly; he just hadn't been able to compete with Sirius – at least, not before Sirius went to Azkaban. The pictures hadn't done him justice, though. Regulus had been a surly, miserable looking git in every single one of them. The man that swept into the room looked different – more confident – and that made all the difference. Regulus Black had aged incredibly well.

Harry felt a jolt low in his stomach and blushed furiously. Around him the Order erupted with noise and confusion, and Regulus Black just looked at them in utter disgust before returning his attention to the goblins.

"I'm here to claim Lordship of the Black estate," he said.

He sounded like Sirius. They both had the same cut-glass accent that spoke of more wealth and breeding than anyone should know what to do with. And while Sirius had toned it down with awkwardly used slang and the occasional swearword, Regulus seemed the type to not bother trying.

"I'm afraid your late brother left the entail to his godson, Mr Black," the goblin said. "He seemed to think you were dead."

"I've heard that a lot recently," Regulus replied. He tilted his head. "Well? Where is the boy?"

Harry stepped forward without even thinking, and the room fell silent. Regulus turned to look at him and Harry held stock still as he was appraised by cool silver eyes. It felt like Regulus was mentally undressing him and heat coiled in his stomach in response.

"I see," Regulus said lowly. A wicked smile curled the right corner of his mouth. "It would seem Mr Potter and I have business to discuss, then."

"Now see here!"

"Mr Black, if I can suggest –"

He ignored the Order members – even Dumbledore – and crossed the room towards Harry in just a few short strides.

"You were close to my brother?"

Harry blinked at him. "He was my dad, at least, as much as anyone could be."

Regulus nodded. "Then you understand why I am reluctant to let go of what remains of my family."

It was a strange thing to say, for someone who had pretended to be dead for fifteen years, but Harry could understand. In a way.

"You were protecting him," he said, and he knew as soon as he said it that it was true. He licked his lips. "So what now?"

"The Black estate can only be inherited after the death or permanent incapacitation of its former head." There was another roar of protest from the surrounding crowd. Harry was pretty sure that he could hear someone crying. He forced himself to ignore them, just like Regulus was doing. "I will not ask that of you."

"Oh," he said. "Good. So what then?"

"I suggest an alliance between the Houses of Potter and Black."

The protests grew louder.

"Marry me."


	19. Regression II

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and I am making no profit from this.

**Egyptian Firefly** wanted a continuation of 'Regression'

Regression II: Forgiveness

by Evandar

The look Neville Longbottom was giving him was completely at odds with his round face and usually genial nature. If Salazar had still been convinced he was Harry Potter, he would have been unnerved. As it was, he recognised it in an instant.

"Godric," he murmured, acknowledging his friend.

For a split second, that look turned to relief before Godric started glaring at him again. "I'm not talking to you," he said.

Salazar resisted the urge to tell him that he'd already broken his resolve. Godric had always been prone to bizarre fits of pettiness, although Salazar presumed he'd actually done something to deserve it this time. In fact, he definitely deserved it. The last time he'd seen Godric…he winced.

"Would it help if I apologised?" he asked. "I am sorry, 'Ric."

"Not sorry enough." The venom in Godric's voice earned him some funny looks from the children meant to be their peers. Godric – as usual – ignored them. "You left."

"You cheated," Salazar reminded him and then immediately felt ridiculous.

It had been a petty argument that had sent him from Hogwarts. It had been nothing like how the history books had painted it: for a start, Muggleborns hadn't even been mentioned. Godric had wanted children. Salazar had already had a wife and been widowed, and honestly hadn't thought about Godric having children of his own. Saladin had been brought up by the two of them anyway.

They'd fought, Salazar had left, and then he'd spent the rest of his life regretting it. He'd never seen Godric again – the idiot had got himself killed doing something suitably heroic before Salazar could return.

"Never mind," he said. "I made a mistake."

Godric's eyebrows raised. "You're actually apologising. _You_."

"I was under the impression that I should," Salazar said blandly. "Unless you'd rather I didn't."

He waited. The children around them seemed to be waiting too. Hermione was looking between him and Godric with narrowed eyes and a suspicious expression. He recalled that – as Harry – he hadn't really spoken to the vast majority of his classmates. He'd always been surrounded and hemmed in by Ron and Hermione. They guarded his friendship jealously.

Godric snorted suddenly. "Ancient history, love," he said, and the air between them cleared.

Salazar smiled at him gently. "Literally."


	20. Sowilo

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _Thor_ and I am making no profit from this.

**WizardsGirl** wanted a _Harry Potter/Thor_ crossover with Harry/Loki

Sowilo

by Evandar

At first, he hadn't been able to understand Thor's fascination with humans. They were so weak and boring. Watching their world was like watching ants. Humans all seemed to blur into one, faceless entity of absolute dullness. That – and Thor's attachment to them – was what made their planet so wonderfully ripe for takeover.

He would rule them, stop their incessant warring, and build a peaceful kingdom. One that would look to him for guidance rather than his father or older brother. And if he couldn't have Asgard, then a planet like this – one that Thor was fond of – would be a suitable enough substitute. Thor's fondness for it would only make his victory sweeter, in the long run.

But ruling humans meant that he had to have some sort of grasp of the finer points of their varying cultures. He'd travelled earth extensively upon arriving there, and for the most part he'd liked what he'd found. While humans were all basically the same, with the same hopes and dreams and failings, they were fairly diverse. He liked the variety. It was a spice that kept the planet from being too monotonous.

He'd ended up in London, England, on what seemed like a typically dreary day. Rain was falling in a light drizzle that didn't so much fall than cling irritatingly to clothing and slowly chill people to the bone. Crowds of people passed him, huddled under umbrellas or walking briskly with their coat collars pulled up in a poor defence against the damp. The world here was grey and dismal – everything about it was colourless.

He walked among them until he could take it no more and sought refuge in a coffee shop. He placed his order and paid without looking at anyone and found a comfy seat by a heater. He didn't mind the cold as much as he did the wet, and he peeled off his coat gratefully before looking around at last.

The shop was small and filled with books and odd ornaments. The tables were all at different heights and looked like they'd come from a collection of different antique shops. The one he'd chosen to sit at appeared to have led a previous life as a desk or bureau of some sort. There were drawers in it and its surface was covered in smooth, dark green leather. He had to resist the urge to open the drawers to see if anything was in them.

"Your cappuccino, sir."

He looked up at the waiter and blinked in surprise. The young man possessed the greenest eyes he'd ever seen on a living being. They couldn't possibly be a natural feature on a human, but they seemed to be. The rest of him was handsome, in a boyish sort of way: he had pale skin and wild dark hair that looked like it had been styled by a hurricane, and there was an odd-looking scar on his forehead. It looked like someone had carved the sowilo rune into his skin.

The boy noticed his look and raised a hand to flatten his hair over it. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

Loki shook his head. Then paused. The boy was marked, somehow, by the sun and victory. He'd finally found something truly _interesting_.

"Is there anything in these drawers?" he asked. Asking about the scar directly, judging from the boy's reaction over his glance at it was probably a bad idea.

The boy tilted his head to the side and smiled slightly. "Secrets, I suppose," he said. "Only people who need this place are able to find it, and this table –" he looked down at it with an oddly fond look "- this table tends to attract the people with secrets. They leave things, sometimes. I don't read them. Sometimes curiosity is a bad thing."

He said the last bit like he knew exactly what he was talking about, and Loki surprised himself by laughing. "What happens when the drawers get full?"

"They never will," the boy replied. He hesitated for a moment, and then smiled again. "I'll leave you to it. Just call if you need anything else."

Loki watched him leave, admiring the lines of the boy's back and the slight sway of his hips. He would call, perhaps. He may even return to this place. He sipped his coffee and sighed in contentment, sinking back into the chair. Every supreme ruler needed a consort, and a boy marked by victory would only be fitting.


	21. Dinner

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _Naruto_ and I am making no profit from this.

**May Eve** wanted a _Harry Potter/Naruto_ crossover with Harry/Gai

Dinner

by Evandar

TenTen had been somewhat reluctant to accept her sensei's invitation to dinner. Putting up with both Gai-sensei and Lee during training and missions was enough of a strain already; the idea of doing so for fun made her cringe. But it was in celebration of their first completed C-Rank and her father had calmly informed her that it would be rude to refuse (though he'd been laughing at her, she just knew it) so she'd gone along with it.

She met an equally reluctant Neji on the way, and they walked together as slowly as humanly possible towards their sensei's apartment, and in absolute silence. They ran into Lee outside the door. He was practically vibrating with excitement and TenTen could feel a headache developing behind her left eye.

They were buzzed in – Lee had apparently already informed Gai-sensei of his arrival – and they climbed the stairs, Lee racing ahead and then waiting for them impatiently at the top.

The door was answered by a short, slight young man with messy hair and unbelievably green eyes. TenTen felt her jaw drop, before her brain kicked into gear and she started making excuses.

"I'm so sorry, I think we must have the wrong address," she said.

He looked at her, then at Lee, and grinned. "Not at all," he said, revealing a bit of a weird accent. "You're Gai's students, right? Come on in." He held the door open for them, and ushered them inside. TenTen shared a look of confusion with Neji as they entered.

Gai-sensei's apartment was surprisingly nice. It wasn't decorated in green and bright orange; the walls were pale blue and decorated with scrolls and odd-looking paintings that hung between several bookcases. The carpet and the couch were both black and twisted little bonsai trees sat on the window sills. The whole place radiated serenity, and TenTen strongly suspected that Gai-sensei had had nothing to do with the colour-scheme whatsoever.

Mystery-man led them into the kitchen-dining room where Gai-sensei was cooking. He greeted them all with his usual enthusiasm, and TenTen spotted a tiny smile lurking on mystery-man's face before he turned away.

"This is Harii," Gai-sensei told them, waving a hand towards the young man, who was now focussing on putting a salad together. He didn't offer an explanation of why he was there, or why his accent was so strange.

"It's nice to meet you," Harii-san said calmly (and TenTen realised that the flat's serenity probably stemmed from him; he seemed like the kind of guy who was completely unflappable – like Neji, only more tolerant). "Gai's always talking about you. It's nice to be able to put names to faces."

Lee was practically glowing with joy. TenTen had to admit – even just to herself – that Harii-san's statement left her feeling warm inside. It was nice to think that Gai-sensei was genuinely pleased to have them as students, enough to mention them to his flatmate at least.

Or were they just flatmates? There was something about the way that they moved around each other as they cooked that reminded her of her parents. Tiny little looks and shared smiles and a complete ease in each others' presence that spoke of more than just friendship. She wasn't sure what to think of that. On the one hand, the idea of Gai-sensei as a sexual being was horrifying, but on the other, she was glad that he had someone – it gave her hope for Lee, at least. And Harii-san seemed utterly normal too, barring his accent.

"Ah, I was wondering, where are you from Harii-san?" she asked, unable to stop herself.

"A long way away," he replied easily. "You won't have heard of it."

She blinked. "Far away as in Lightning Country?"

"Further."

"Why did you come here?" Neji asked, and TenTen was glad that she hadn't been the one to ask it. Harii-san looked uncomfortable.

"It wasn't home anymore," he said eventually. "So I left and went travelling and eventually decided to settle here." He shrugged and smiled again. "You can blame Gai for that. My being here is all his fault."

That was sweet, TenTen thought, and she smiled up at him. He winked at her and set the salad on the table. Dinner suddenly wasn't looking so bad after all.


	22. Normal

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter _ and am making no profit from this.

**Lireach** asked for Percy/Harry

Normal

by Evandar

There were times, like now, when Harry felt an overbearing empathy for Percy Weasley. Surrounded by his siblings, who were all effortlessly popular, he was very much the odd duck. Odd to the point where the twins often wondered – out-loud, of course, and well within Percy's earshot – if they were really related. His parents didn't seem to know how to react to him either, and Harry privately thought that that was the saddest thing of all. For all that the Weasleys were a lovely family, when it came to Percy they acted in a way that almost reminded Harry of the Dursleys' attitude to him.

It was unfair, particularly when, other than his overbearing nerdiness, Percy had done nothing that could possibly upset them. He had graduated with high marks and found a respectable job – when Charlie was being hounded by Mrs Weasley for working with dragons and the twins had only got three OWLs apiece.

And admittedly, regulation cauldron bottom thickness sounded about as interesting as watching paint dry, but Percy was working hard on it, at least. Surely his dedication should earn him some brownie points. Right?

But then, Harry had never earned favour with the Dursleys, no matter how well he did the cooking or the weeding or the cleaning or any of his other chores. He never got praised either, because unless he did something wrong, he was completely under their radar.

The truth was: Percy was just too normal to be a Weasley.

He watched Percy fall silent and resentful and nudged him gently. "What's your ideal job?" he asked. "I mean, what's your goal in the Ministry?"

Percy looked at him in surprise. He was, after all, Ron's friend and had never really paid that much attention to him before.

"Oh," he said. "I'd quite like to go into international relations, actually." He glanced at his family, who were being distracted by Ginny and a fresh piece of gossip. "I'd have to work on my diplomatic skills, of course, but I think it would be worth it. The people you would meet would make up for any of the downsides."

"There're downsides?" Harry asked.

"Oh yes, of course there are. There's paperwork and tasks you might not particularly be interested in, but I think that's the same for every job out there."

"Like cauldron bottoms?" He couldn't imagine anyone being genuinely interested in such a thing. Sure enough, Percy gave him a rueful little smile.

"Exactly," he said. "Have you given any thought as to what you want to do?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't really know what's on offer."

"You get guidance next year, when you're decided on what NEWTs to do, but it's never too early to start. You're not for Quidditch then?"

"I love flying, but…I don't know. I guess I'd always be paranoid about being offered a place just because I'm Harry Potter." He bit his lip. It was something that had been bothering him ever since he'd entered the Wizarding World. "I'm not used to the spot light. I'm nothing special in the Muggle world. Sometimes here, people just see the scar or my parents and it's really off putting."

"I can imagine," Percy said softly. "People do tend to expect things depending on your family background in the Wizarding world."

They fell quiet, a kind of peaceful understanding settling between them while the rest of the Weasleys grew louder. Percy wasn't frowning anymore, though, and Harry felt a bubble of warmth expand in his chest.


	23. Perfect II

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _A Song for Milly Michaelson_ by Thrice (The Alchemy Index, Volumes 3&4) and I am making no profit from this.

**AN:** I hate to come off as a bit weird, but I hate it when people review a story telling me to update something else, while saying nothing about what they've just read. It's probably just me, but I find it a bit rude – call it a quirk, if you will. I'll update other fics when I have the chapters written for them.

* * *

><p><strong>Smileadaykeepmeaway<strong> wanted Bill/Harry with Bill teasing Harry for singing in the shower.

Perfect II: Love the Night

by Evandar

He couldn't hear the words over the spray of the water, but he could hear some part of the melody. It was low and mournful and Harry's voice echoed strangely off the tiles, but Bill found the fact that he sang in the shower kind of endearing. Then again, Bill found quite a lot of what Harry did to be endearing. Even before they'd shared kisses in the garden in the moonlight, Bill had been enchanted by him.

So he stood outside the door and listened. If anyone passed, he could say he was waiting for the loo. It was more reasonable than admitting to loving the sound of Harry's voice, particularly when no one was meant to know that yet. Twenty-five year old men weren't supposed to think about fourteen year old boys in such a way.

It wasn't long before the shower shut off. Bill was half tempted to leave, but…if he stayed, Harry would be in a towel. He lingered, and sure enough, he'd been right. He wasn't wearing his glasses, so his big green eyes weren't obscured by the frames. Little droplets of water dripped from the ends of his hair, down onto his slim shoulders where it pooled slightly in the hollow at the base of his throat.

He was beautiful. Bill licked his lips. Harry went wide-eyed when he saw him and flushed scarlet.

"Ah! Bill! What're you –"

"I was enjoying the concert," Bill told him; not wanting to say he'd wanted to see Harry half naked.

Harry's blush darkened and he turned his face away in embarrassment. He looked so cute like that, Bill just wanted to scoop him up and kiss him. He didn't. He couldn't be sure if any of his siblings would appear. "Oh," Harry said. "I, um. Oh."

"What song was it?" Bill asked. He was curious, he had to admit. There was a lot he didn't know about Harry that he would like to – music taste was one of those things.

"I don't know the name," Harry said. He wrapped his arms around himself, the cool air of the corridor was obviously beginning to get to him. Bill cast a warming charm on him. "I heard it on the radio at the Dursleys. It was pretty, so I tried to learn the words."

He gave Bill a look, as if trying to figure out if Bill would laugh at him. Then he sighed, cleared his throat, and sang.

"_Here we go. Hold on tight and don't let go. I won't ever let you fall. I love the night, flying over these city lights, but I love you most of all."_


	24. Hallowed

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and I am making no profit from this.

**Tommy14** wanted Grindelwald/Harry

Hallowed

by Evandar

Death exists outside of time, and so must its master.

Harry is baffled when he realises that. Not because it doesn't make sense when he stops aging and starts remembering things that he can't possibly know, but because people have actually _wanted_ this. Dumbledore and Grindelwald had, at least. It takes a while to get used to, but he does, and it's a good thing too – it means he's not too surprised when he wakes up in a different time.

He's in a field. The sun is shining and the grass is long. An old oak tree stands in the centre of the field, heavy limbs leaning close to the earth and almost hiding the people under it from view. They are two boys, not much older than Harry; one blond and the other red-haired. They're talking about the Deathly Hallows and Harry knows who they are in an instant.

Dumbledore and Grindelwald.

He drifts closer, curious. His old professor is staring at Grindelwald with nothing short of adoration in his eyes, and Harry knows that what Rita Skeeter wrote about him is true. He swallows. Goes even closer. They notice him and look up at him in surprise.

"Who are you?"

It's Grindelwald that asks. His accent is strong and made up of 'v's and short, clipped syllables. His eyes are blue, Harry notices, bluer than Dumbledore's and the cloudless sky above them. He really is very handsome.

Dumbeldore is looking at him coldly. It's strange seeing such suspicion from his future headmaster, but that Dumbledore is vastly different from this one – he knows that.

"He's not from around here," Dumbledore says, trying to drag Grindelwald's attention back to himself. "I've never seen him before, not even at school."

Grindelwald's gaze cools considerably. Harry blinks. Up until then he hadn't noticed the amount of interest Grindelwald had held for him.

"Oh, I'm a wizard," he says idly. "I'm just different."

Before either of them can ask how, he leans closer to Grindelwald and – for the sheer hell of it – presses their lips together in the chastest of kisses. He hears Dumbledore gasp, and is satisfied. It's a petty kind of revenge on the man for manipulating him into sacrificing himself. The 'greater good' was never good for Harry, after all.

He pulls away. Grindelwald looks surprised, and there's a pink flush to his cheeks.

"You should be more careful, talking about the Hallows," Harry says quietly. "They can hear you."

He darts in for another kiss just because Grindelwald's lips are soft and warm and he leaves before Grindelwald can fully register what he's said. He doesn't know if – or how – he could be called back, but there's a suspicion in his heart that says that he might be.


	25. Back Chat

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _Death Note_ and am making no profit from this.

**May Eve** wanted a _Harry Potter/Death Note_ crossover where Harry was a Shinigami and the Death Note acted a bit like Riddle's diary

Back Chat

by Evandar

_Senjii Tatou – heart attack_

_Akado Yumi – heart attack_

_Sasanoda Takeshi – heart attack_

_Hiito Mayuri – heart attack_

_Takashi Hikasu – heart attack_

_Dear God, kid, what happened to originality?_

The last line was written in romaji, in handwriting that Light didn't recognise. For a moment, his heart felt like it stopped beating. Someone else had seen the Death Note. Someone else had written in it.

He lifted his pen and hesitated. If someone had seen the Death Note – had known that he'd written in it and that the people mentioned had died – then surely it should have been mentioned to the police. But he hadn't been arrested yet.

He lowered his pen, hacked into the NPA, and looked up the Kira case files. Nothing. No mention of him or of Death Notes at all.

He picked up the pen again.

_Who are you?_

The next day there was an answer.

_The Master of Death. Tell Ryuk I'm going to kill him for giving a Note to a human – especially such a boring one._

_I'm not boring_, Light wrote back. _I am purifying the sin from this world. How can you be Master of Death?_

_You have a God Complex_, the reply said. _And there will always be sin, or do yours not count?_

The reply hadn't answered his question, so after a few more exchanges, Light asked Ryuk instead.

"He's the Shinigami King," Ryuk said, peering at Light's Death Note curiously.

"He seems…" Light trailed off, not entirely sure how to describe the person who had informed him – point blank – that he was the most dull megalomaniac to have ever existed. Ever.

Ryuk shrugged and floated awkwardly back up to the ceiling. "Can't tell you about him," he said. Light, who had suspected that might be the case, just sighed.


	26. Perfect III

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this.

**.morbidity** wanted a continuation of 'Perfect'

Perfect III: Future

by Evandar

Smoke furled up into the sky and Harry sighed, snuggling back against Bill's chest. He would miss this. He had to go back to Hogwarts tomorrow and Bill would go back to Egypt and their warm, lazy kisses would become memories – things to be held close and precious and private so that not even Ron and Hermione would know.

"I'll come visit you," Bill murmured in his ear. Strange how Bill always seemed to know what he was thinking about.

"At Hogwarts?" Harry asked. "How? Wouldn't that be weird?"

He couldn't even begin to imagine how they would manage to get away with it without anyone finding out about their relationship, and it was Bill who wanted to keep quiet about it.

"This year's a bit special," Bill said. His lips brushed Harry's ear, sending shivers down his spine. "So I can get onto the grounds alright. If you want me to, that is."

Harry twisted round in his arms and pressed their lips together. "Of course I do, but what if we're seen?"

Bill sighed. He turned his face away so that he could take a drag of his cigarette. He looked like he was deep in thought. His long eyelashes glinted gold in the last of the fading sunlight. It would be dark soon, and they would have to go back inside and pretend that they were barely acquainted again.

"Then we're seen," Bill said. "My family probably won't understand at first, but they'll come round. I'm sure of it."

"But what if they don't?"

"They will."

Harry bit his lip and didn't argue. He didn't want Bill to risk his relationship with his family over him, but he supposed that Bill knew the rest of the Weasleys better than he did. He released his lip when Bill kissed him softly once, twice, before slipping his tongue into Harry's mouth and deepening it.

"It'll be okay, Harry," he said when he pulled away. "I promise."

And Harry couldn't help but believe him.


	27. Pathetic

**AN:** Sorry for the huge gap between updates. I haven't given up on your challenges! I just found myself working full time at a temp job for the last three weeks on top of my housekeeping gig and yeah. No time; no sleep. But I'm back!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and I am making no profit from this.

**Lys Sheridan** wanted a pre-Hogwarts!Snape scaring Petunia

Pathetic

by Evandar

"You're just a freak. You'll never amount to anything. You'll end up just like your father, drinking too much and screaming at your wife so the neighbours can hear. You're pathetic."

It's a cruel thing to say, but Petunia Evans is a cruel girl so it's not a surprise that she says it. She's said things like that before, and he's always managed to scare her off with magic, but Lily doesn't like it when he does that. And Petunia will tell; he just knows it. It's what kind of girl she is.

He digs his fingers into the earth and tries to ignore her, but he can't. Wind rustles his hair and his oversized smock, and he pushes the tiniest bit of his magic into it, so that he can lift the autumn leaves and swirl them around him. Petunia takes a step back.

"I'll amount to nothing?" he says. "I've got magic. I can do anything. You don't. You're talentless, brainless" – not _exactly_ true; she's got a great memory for things that hurt others – "and ugly." He grins up at her. "You'll end up a lonely, bored housewife – unfulfilled and unsatisfied by whatever moron you manage to trick into taking you on. Lily will pity you, of course, and stay in contact, but you won't have any other friends. You'll just be a spiteful hag, rotting away in Muggle suburbia while the _Snape brat_" – he mimics her high, whining voice with unerring accuracy. He mimics her to make Lily laugh sometimes, even though she always tells him afterwards that it's mean – "makes his mark on the world."

He lets the leaves lower back to the grass in a perfect circle around him.

"You're the pathetic one," he says.

He watches as she runs away down the hill, and smiles and waits for Lily.


	28. Second Chance II

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this.

**IkutoisSmexy** wanted a continuation of 'Second Chance'

Surveillance

by Evandar

Dumbledore doesn't like him. He doesn't like Tom, or any of Tom's friends, and Harry has been caught up in it. Mostly because he spends a remarkable amount of time with Tom's arm round his waist and his tongue down his throat, but the suspicion is worth it.

Tom won't become a monster, and keeping him on the straight and narrow is an infinitely pleasurable experience.

But no matter how much you meddle with time, some things never change, and Albus Dumbledore will always dislike Tom Riddle – and the dislike will always be mutual. They walk together down corridors, hand in hand, under the gaze of bright blue eyes that no longer twinkle with good humour.

Dumbledore tries to catch him alone sometimes, but Tom makes sure he can't – either by being there himself or by making sure that their friends are around him constantly. It bothered Harry at first, but he's used to it now and he appreciates it. The way that Dumbledore looks at him makes the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

He holds Tom's hand under the desk at the back of the classroom and keeps his head down. Tom's thumb rubs over the back of his hand but it doesn't stop him from wanting to crawl out of his skin and flee. Dumbledore is watching them again, staring as he lectures as if every word is meant only for them. Tom stares back, of course. He's not afraid of Dumbledore.

(Harry remembers the rumour that Dumbledore was the only wizard Voldemort ever feared and wonders if it was ever actually true. He'll never know now, because Voldemort will never be born, but Tom's lack of fear makes him curious.)

He takes a deep breath as they leave the room at the end of the class. Tom's hand relocates to the small of his back and he's gently guided away from Transfiguration. Tom leans in and presses a soft kiss to Harry's cheek and Harry relaxes into the touch.

"Ignore him," Tom says. "He's always been like that."

It's true enough, as far as Tom's concerned. He's not as bothered by Dumbledore because Dumbledore's never liked him. Harry still remembers a time when he would look up to Dumbledore as a mentor; an idol. But he resolves, privately, to move past it. There's no point in missing a future that won't happen.

He cuddles into Tom's side. He has more important people in his life to worry about than Dumbledore.


	29. Let Them Eat Pie

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _Sweeney Todd_ and I am making no profit from this.

**SSC** wanted a _Harry Potter/Sweeney Todd_ crossover

Let Them Eat Pie

by Evandar

No one took much notice when a barber's shop opened up over the bakery in Knockturn Alley. After all, wizards need someone to cut their hair, even the ones with dubious career choices. And no one took much notice of the owner, with his wild black hair and the flat brown eyes that sometimes showed green around the edge of the iris. It was Knocktun Alley – no one asked questions. Asking questions got you on the wrong side of a wand.

It had been easy to sneak back in to Wizarding Britain. Everyone had noticed him leave, of course, Boy-Who-Lived wanted for the murder of a classmate – _poor Cedric_ – that he hadn't committed. But wizards didn't pay attention to those they thought of as lower than themselves and barbers were barely above House Elves in that respect. A few years, a little Muggle foundation on his scar and a pair of coloured contacts and he was completely unrecognisable as the Boy-Who-Fled-The-Law.

His downstairs neighbour was a little crazy and a little twisted and more than willing to make a profitable business deal with him for a bit of free meat for her 'special' pies. After all, the Wizarding world had already proclaimed him a murderer, so he might as well become one and make the world a better place in the process.

Death Eaters had a surprising amount of meat on them.


	30. Loyalty

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and I make no profit from this.

**sunsethill** wanted a non-comedic Harry/Luna

Loyalty

by Evandar

"Luna? You're taking _Luna_?" Hermione smothers an incredulous giggle before reaching out and patting his shoulder. "Oh Harry, you're hopeless."

He pulls away. "I like Luna," he tells her. "She's sweet and funny and kind. She's a good friend and I like her company so why shouldn't I take her?" He doesn't think that Hermione's got room to talk, anyway, since she's going to Slughorn's party with McLaggan just so she can make Ron jealous and she's _already_ avoiding him. At least Harry knows that he'll be able to get through the night without wanting to hex his date into a thousand pieces.

In fact, he thinks he'll have a pretty good time. If he can manage to avoid Slughorn's fawning then he may even enjoy himself.

"It's, well, it's Luna," Hermione says. "There's far nicer girls you could go with, Harry. Ones that aren't…well."

"Willing to break into the Ministry to help rescue someone they've never met?" Harry suggests. "Seriously, Hermione, drop it."

"There's Ginny," she replies. "If you want someone like that, but who doesn't act like a lunatic. Ginny's lovely, Harry, and I've seen you look at her."

Privately, Harry thinks that it's hard not to look at Ginny when she starts snogging people right in front of him or when she opens the top four buttons of her school blouse. Anyone would look at that. Instead he replies "she's with Dean."

Hermione rolls her eyes as if he's the most stupid person she's ever met. "But you're Harry Potter," she says. "She'd jump at the chance to go with you, Dean or no Dean. Besides, they aren't working out so well."

"Probably because she's the kind of girl who'd go out with me just because I'm Harry Potter," Harry says. "Luna's not. So, Luna. Now drop it. Please."

Hermione's cheeks redden and she blusters for a moment, but then they're in the entrance hall and Luna is there. She looks lovely in a silver dress the same colour as her eyes, and her blonde hair is tied back with her wand. A new pair of earrings, corks carved into the shape of mermaids, dangle from her ears.

She smiles at him with a warmth that's utterly genuine as he steps forward and takes her hand. He wants to get her away from Hermione before she can say something tactless to Luna's face again. Luna doesn't deserve that.

"You look brilliant," he tells her. He means it.


	31. Nesting

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _Yu Yu Hakusho_ and am making no profit from this.

**SlashnYaoi** wanted a _Harry Potter/Yu Yu Hakusho_ crossover with Harry/Yomi MPreg

Nesting

by Evandar

Harry tugged the last of the blankets into place and dropped it. He looked down at the mound at his feet, contemplating it for a moment, and then lowered himself slowly. He shoved and tugged and wrestled – mostly with himself, the bulge of his stomach tended to get in the way of his movements these days – the blankets into a more suitable shape.

A nest. His nest. Right in the middle of the floor.

He hoped Yomi would be able to sense his Reiki before he tripped right over it. He would have told the demon what he was up to if there had been any way to get a message into the meeting room.

He sighed and settled himself into the soft cocoon. He'd made servants grab every spare blanket from the entire castle for this endeavour. It was worth it. _So_ much better than the times he'd tried to rearrange the furniture into something more satisfactory. He ran a hand over his stomach, feeling fluttering movements beneath the taught skin.

It wouldn't be long now, before the baby was born. That was why he felt so antsy all the time, wanting the perfect place to give birth in. He wondered if it was a demon thing, the child affecting his behaviour. It did that sometimes. He hadn't spent most of his pregnancy craving raw meat and blood because it was a human.

The child flipped inside of him and kicked. Harry winced and poked back gently. The kid was strong. It would probably take after its father, proud and clever and beautiful. Harry wasn't sure if anything he could give it would pass on, given what his genes were competing with, but he hoped there would be something. Not his magic – _hell no_, a demon with magic would be a _really_ bad thing – but…his eyes, maybe?

Another kick. Another flip and twist and flutter and the baby fell still. Finally. Apparently it approved of Harry's nest. Good. He wouldn't have to make another one, then.

He snuggled down and let his eyes slip closed. There was no harm in a nap while Yomi was still busy, and then maybe Yomi could join them: his powerful demon lord nesting in a pile of blankets. He grinned and stroked his stomach one more time. They'd have to wait and see.


	32. Raphaelite III

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this.

**kookookarli** wanted a continuation of 'Raphaelite'

Raphaelite III: Forbidden

by Evandar

McGonagall pursed her lips and looked at him over the frames of her glasses. It was a hard, cold look – colder even than the ones he'd become used to after he'd disappointed everyone by not becoming an Auror. It was as if she was trying to stare right into his soul and see what kind of person he was. Harry kept his own expression as neutral as possible. There was no point in provoking her when he was trying to ask her a favour.

"The portrait of Salazar Slytherin is an important historical artefact, Mr Potter," she said. She sounded like she was about to put him in detention for something. "It belongs to the school."

"I realise that, Professor," he replied. "But I-"

"No 'buts', Mr Potter."

He glanced beyond her. Dumbledore was frowning down at him as well, looking most disconcerted by Harry's interest in the Founder of the 'evil' House. Harry resisted the urge to swear at him – Dumbledore was dead and Harry had defeated the Dark Lord. He had no reason to be so concerned with Harry's life.

Further up the wall, Salazar watched him along with the rest of the restored Founders. Harry met his gaze and felt his heart break just that little bit more. He didn't know what he was supposed to do without Salazar now. The portrait had become such an important part of his life.

"What if I entailed his portrait back to the school? Then, when I died, he would be part of Hogwarts' collection once more. You could say then, that the money I'd buy him with, was a donation. God knows the school could use new broomsticks."

McGonagall's lips pressed together so tightly that they were barely visible. "Be that as it may, Mr Potter, it would not be appropriate." Her eyes darted towards Dumbledore's portrait. "You have already spent a considerable amount of time with Lord Slytherin – more than most – there cannot possibly be anything else you with to speak with him about."

"But –"

"Mr Potter!"

He fell silent. His fists clenched inside of his robes. He knew fine well that it wouldn't be like this if he'd followed everyone's expectations of him. But no, he'd done what he'd wanted to do and now everyone resented him for it. Everyone except Salazar, who understood him better than anyone.

"It does not do to dwell on dreams, Harry," Dumbledore said, breaking into the conversation.

Harry couldn't stop himself from glaring at him. Salazar wasn't the Mirror of Erised – Harry could have him and have a life as well, if only he was given the chance.

"If your reality is denied, Professor, what else can you have but dreams?" he asked.

He looked back at McGonagall. "Goodbye Professor," he said, and stood to leave.

He only glanced back one, before he left, to look up at Salazar again and the mournful expression on his face. Harry knew that face better than his own. He'd studied its shades and lines and contours and he would be damned if he never saw it again.

It appeared that McGonagall had forgotten just how stubborn Harry could be. Too bad for her. He was never going to give Salazar up.

Never.


	33. Glacial II

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _InuYasha_ and I am making no profit from this.

**Sakamoto Itoe** wanted a continuation of 'Glacial'

Glacial II: Cold War

by Evandar

They were fools. Pompous, idiotic fools to look down on this Sesshoumaru when they could barely speak without stammering. He knew it was because he wasn't human; that the British wizards prided themselves on the purity of their magical _human_ blood, but he didn't care. They were fools to think themselves better than he, when he was the one in a position of power.

He didn't know how much their Minister had told them, but the magical nations of Japan and Great Britain were on the brink of war. And here they were whimpering about furthering trade. Pathetic. They were pitiful, all of them; when hostilities broke out, he would put them out of their misery and let them be the first to die.

All of them save the one that smelled of death. Potter Harry-san, with his ridiculous glasses and messy hair and his constant staring (Jaken had informed him, when he'd asked, that the wizard's eyes were green as grass). He was, by far, the most interesting of the British diplomats – if only because he kept his mouth shut and seemed to realise that he was accompanying a group of morons. The slight scent of arousal he gave off – in amongst the toothpaste and the tea and the sushi and the death, death, such powerful death – was tolerable because this Sesshoumaru was used to humans finding him attractive and it wasn't as though either of them would ever act on it.

He had to admit, though, that he was curious about the mortal. (A passing curiosity, never anything more.) How could a human reek of so much death? It wasn't something that he'd come across before despite the long years he'd spent interacting (mostly unwillingly) with humankind.

The diplomat he'd been tuning out stammered to a halt. Sesshoumaru looked up at him. He was an aging human with a receeding hairline and a swelling stomach. He was a repulsive specimen. His jowls trembled and flushed as Sesshoumaru continued to inspect him. Truly repulsive. He would have to read Jaken's notes later to find out what he'd been attempting to speak about. Usually Sesshoumaru didn't glaze over in meetings, but it seemed impossible not to with these…_people_. They were the most insipid dregs of a dull race that he'd ever come across.

A soft cough from the other side of the room drew Sesshoumaru's attention away and back to the one he'd really been thinking about. Potter-san, it seemed, was responsible for breaking the awkward silence.

He was the youngest in the room, the most attractive and by far the most physically fit. He was the most powerful of the wizards as well, but that didn't stop him from shifting awkwardly under Sesshoumaru's glare.

Maybe, when war broke out, he could be used as a hostage. The British had to have sent him for some reason. And then, when he was under this Sesshoumaru's control, the puzzle that was his scent could be solved and the diversion he had become would cease to be. Then he could either be shipped back or killed and Sesshoumaru wouldn't have to deal with the nagging sensation at the back of his mind that this human was somehow _dangerous_.

He looked down at his claws, which he'd spent the meeting pretending to inspect. They were glowing with his poisonous youki. He heard Jaken dismiss the British diplomats and gave a soft sigh of relief.

Potter-san turned at the door, and Sesshoumaru met his gaze. Potter-san said nothing. He didn't need to. He knew what was coming.

This Sesshoumaru would break him and his pathetic little country, and he would make him enjoy it.


	34. Entail II

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this.

**Lireach** wanted a continuation of 'Entail'

Entail II: Dinner Date

by Evandar

The restaurant was nice, but not too fancy. Not fancy enough to make Harry feel like scum for wearing jeans, anyway. He'd been able to pronounce the things on the menu and there weren't too many knives and forks. It was a good start. A better start was that Regulus was allowing him to have a little bit of wine – just a small glass – to make him feel more relaxed. He was nervous. He was on a date with a man he'd thought was dead, and who had proposed to him out of the blue at his godfather's will reading.

He had the _right_ to be nervous.

His friends thought he was mad to even be considering it. Hermione had scolded him for hours, pointed out all the thousands of ways that it could go wrong and finished with the assertion "he's just not right for you, Harry!" Ron's major argument was that Regulus had been a Death Eater. Ginny hadn't even had one. She'd given him a betrayed look and fled upstairs with tears streaming down her face.

He knew that his friends thought he would end up with her one day. But she just didn't affect him the way that Regulus did.

Not that, at the moment, he could bring himself to even look at Regulus. His insides felt too squirmy and he was painfully aware of the Order members that were chaperoning them on Dumbledore's insistence. He would have been far happier if they hadn't been there. Now he got to have an audience when he screwed up and made an idiot of himself.

"I don't bite, Mr Potter," Regulus said quietly.

Harry glanced up at him and felt himself blush. Regulus was sitting back in his chair, holding his wine glass loosely by the stem, and gently swirling the red liquid inside. He looked powerful, somehow.

"I just," he said. He took a deep breath. "I wish we weren't being watched."

Regulus' lips twitched. "They are off-putting, aren't they?"

His smile was like Sirius', Harry thought, but different at the same time. They had the same mouth and it made the same shape, but Sirius' smiles had always been wild and savage. Regulus seemed so much calmer.

"You're different from how I imagined," he admitted. "I thought you'd either be like Malfoy or like Sirius, but you're neither."

"Sirius and I never really spoke after his fifth year," Regulus replied. "We were estranged by the time I graduated. So I suppose I wouldn't be like him. Were you hoping I would be?"

It took a moment for the implications of that question to sink in, but when they did, Harry grimaced. "Ugh," he said. He took a desperate sip of wine, trying not to think about dating his godfather. "Hell no."

Regulus laughed softly. His laugh was nothing like Sirius' at all. "That's reassuring," he said.

Harry agreed with him.

There were so many questions that he wanted to know the answers to crowding on the tip of his tongue, but he was afraid to ask them; afraid of what the answers might actually be. He chewed on his lip and took another sip of wine. It was rich and smooth in his mouth, though he wasn't sure he liked how strong it tasted.

He had to know. He had to ask.

"Why did you ask me to marry you?" He choked the words out, glancing at Regulus and then back down at the table. "Is it just for the money, or –"

"I'm not going to pretend that I know anything about you," Regulus said. "Or that the idea of having an arranged marriage isn't something I learned to accept as a small child. But…" he trailed off. Harry looked up at him again. Regulus wasn't looking at him; rather, he was staring out of the window. Rain was just beginning to speckle the glass, and the Muggles on the street were quickening their steps in response, pulling up coat collars to shield them.

"I would like that to change," Regulus said softly. "I would hate to trap us both in misery when we're so close to gaining our freedom."

"Freedom?" Harry asked.

"From the Dark Lord," Regulus replied. His gaze shone with knowledge and power and so much hope – more hope than Harry had ever seen in an Order member – and Harry knew he was telling the truth. "I know his secret, Harry. I spent the years of my 'death' learning how to use it to kill him."

Harry felt his breath catch in his chest. "Will you teach me?" he asked. Regulus turned back to him, raising an eyebrow in that was that all Slytherins seemed to be able to do.

"There's a prophecy," Harry said. "I have to kill him. It has to be me or him. That's why he tried to kill me as a baby."

Regulus inclined his head. "I will then, if you'll trust me."

"I'll try," Harry said.

The waiter came then with their food, serving it and pouring more wine – topping up Harry's glass even though Harry had promised to stick to only one. Regulus didn't reprimand him, though, and Harry promised himself that he wouldn't drink all of it.

When the waiter was gone, Regulus spoke up again. "We can do this however you want, you know," he said. "I won't force you into anything. I realise that I would have to prove myself before you would be willing to let me into your home."

He didn't say 'into your bed' but Harry thought of those words anyway and blushed furiously. "Uh," he said. "Thanks." He was pretty sure that he'd never been more uncomfortable in his life.

Regulus grinned. Harry's stomach fluttered as he realised that Regulus knew _exactly_ what he'd been thinking about and that he didn't seem particularly adverse to the idea either.

Damn it. Harry was in _way_ over his head.


	35. Magical Criminal Investigation Service

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _NCIS_ and am making no profit from this.

**horsinaround94** wanted a _Harry Potter/NCIS_ crossover with Harry/Gibbs

Magical Criminal Investigation Service

by Evandar

Whoever the guy is, he's cute. Tony doesn't usually look at guys, but this one is something a bit special – slender body, delicate hands, and the biggest green eyes he's ever seen. He's peering around curiously, half-hiding behind the director. Tony smoothes back his hair, puts on his best grin, and he's about to head over when McGee say "you know that's not a girl, right?" and the opportunity is lost.

Gibbs is there and whatever he's saying is making the new guy smile. There's a faint blush rising in his cheeks and damn but he looks adorable. The director leaves and Gibbs leads new guy down the stairs to their area.

"This is Agent Potter; he'll be working with us on the Shipman case."

The Shipman case is a cluster-fuck of weird. A couple found dead from no obvious cause, still in their suburban home with no sign of forced entry. Ducky's ruled out stabbings, shootings, poison, every MO under the sun. It's not a surprise that help's been called in, but there's something irritating about it – an affront to their professional integrity.

Gibbs doesn't seem to mind for once though.

"This is Ziva, DiNozzo, and McGee. You've met Abby and Ducky already."

_He has?_ Tony wonders, even as he holds out his hand. "Hi," he says in his smoothest voice.

Potter raises a single eyebrow and takes his hand briefly. His fingers are strong and oddly calloused. "Hello."

Tony thinks he's a little bit in love. That's definitely a British accent he hears. Potter moves on, greeting the others, as if he hadn't noticed Tony's attempt at flirting. Looks like Gibbs did though, if the warning look in the boss' eyes is anything to go by. Probie gets a comment about his book. Ziva gets greeted in Hebrew. This Potter guy is pretty smooth.

They go over the evidence together, running out the timeline and the suspects like routine. Potter says nothing. He leans against Gibbs' desk, and their shoulders brush comfortably together. Tony tries not to stare too much. Looks like the boss knows the guy pretty well – casual touch with strangers isn't really Gibbs' thing.

"So?" Gibbs asks when the show's over.

"Definitely my department," Potter says. "Bloody _fuck_." He lifts his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. There's a pause. Tony doesn't have to look at the others to know that they're wondering what the hell this guy's department is – he knows that he wants to know.

In the end, it's Ziva that asks.

"MCIS," he says. "Magical Criminal Investigation Service."

Tony laughs, but he's the only one who does. He lets it fade awkwardly. There's an odd sort of silence in the room. Potter isn't joking. Actually, he's looking at Tony in an amused sort of way, as if he thinks that Tony's a complete moron – but not in a 'haha practical joke' sort of way.

"So what, you're a wizard or something?" he asks. He can't quite keep the disbelief from his voice.

Potter slips a long, wooden stick from up his sleeve. It looks well cared for, and he holds it in a way that explains the strange calluses on his fingers. "Serpensortia," he says, and then there's a goddamn fucking _cobra_ in the middle of the room.

And Potter hisses at it, makes noises that no human should be able to, and the cobra relaxes. Its flared hood shrinks back and it drops down to lie coiled on the carpet, perfectly calm.

"Issss that enough proof for you?" He speaks in English again but there's a sinister sort of sibilance to it now that hadn't been there before, like whatever the noises he'd been making before were, they'd infected him.

"Yep, that's proof. So wizards, right, we're looking for them?"

Potter nods. He flicks his stick in the direction of the snake. "Vipera evanesca." The snake is gone.

…

"You've met that Potter guy before?"

Abby raises painted eyebrows and grins. "Down boy," she says. She's laughing at him. "He's totally with Gibbs."

"What?"

But, it makes sense in a way. The looks, the blushes – and Potter is seriously adorable when he's all flushed like that – and the way they stand together barely touching but so obviously _together_.

"I thought the boss liked red-heads," he says. He doesn't say women, though he almost does.

Abby just shrugs. "Could you resist those eyes?" Tony blinks at her, sheepish. She grins and turns back to her computer. "Exactly."


	36. Sowilo II

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter, Thor_, or _The Avengers_ and am making no profit from this.

**AN:** This is late because I totally wanted to see _The Avengers_ before writing it. Yep. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. It was an AMAZING film, by the way.

**Talenyn01** wanted a continuation of 'Sowilo'

Sowilo II: Thurizaz

by Evandar

Harry catches sight of the news on a TV in a shop window on his way to work. There's a crowd of people standing in front of the store and it's them that he notices first. People standing and staring in horror. He slows his walk and brushes his fringe out of his eyes and looks.

The news is covering shaky footage of a battle between superheroes – and a villain. A man in black and green and who Harry recognises immediately. It's the cappuccino guy that sat at the Slytherin desk every day for three weeks; who stared at his scar like it held all the secrets of the universe; who brightened Harry's days by flirting with him on lazy afternoons. He watches as Cappuccino gets slammed into the ground by a man dressed in red metal armour and winces. He's not so completely oblivious to Muggles that he doesn't know who Iron Man is - though he's suddenly wishing that he was. If he didn't know, then he might be able to think that Cappuccino wasn't a supervillain after all.

An unbearable sadness settles in his chest. He'd never even found out the man's name.

…

He finds S.H.I.E.L.D waiting for him when he leaves the café that afternoon. He's fairly dragged onto the giant aircraft carrier in the sky (and really, if wizards knew just how advanced the Muggles were they'd be having heart attacks) and sat in a room of…misfits. Heroes. One of them looks like he's wearing a curtain as a cape. Harry has to bite his lip to keep from laughing – the Hallows will keep him alive, he knows, but there are things worse than death.

He focuses instead on the man with the eyepatch. He's the one who seems to be in charge, after all, despite the fact that there are at least two people in the room who look like they could snap him like a twig: Curtains and Blue Spandex. "Facial recognition software picked up Loki outside your…property several times over the last month."

Harry breathes a sigh of relief that – advanced though they are – they can't get through his wards yet. "Loki?" he asks.

They show him a video of Cappuccino in some kind of cell. He's sitting cross-legged on the floor. His blue eyes are shut and a few wisps of his hair have fallen in front of his face. Harry bites his lip.

"He never told me his name," he says.

Curtain shifts angrily. "What did you speak of?" he asks. His voice is deeper than Harry had been expecting and it makes him jump slightly.

"Maybe they weren't speaking." That's said by a dark haired man with a glowing blue circle just showing through his T-Shirt. Harry's secretly pleased by the fact that he knows who this one is: Tony Stark – Iron Man; he's less pleased because he can remember how he tackled Cappuccino – Loki.

The trickster god of chaos and mischief – who killed the sun god Baldur with an arrow tipped in mistletoe. Cappuccino, two sugars, and a green baize desk filled with secrets.

He takes a deep breath. "The place he was coming to is a café. I own it. I guess he must have liked my coffee." He's careful not to move his hands, though they desperately want to reach for the letter in his pocket. At least, he thinks it's a letter – he can't read the runes it's written in. It's the first time he's taken anything out of that desk drawer, but Loki had told him to.

"_It's for you. Read it if you want to."_

Harry should have known then that he wouldn't be coming back.

"We didn't really know each other."

Not at all, come to think of it, save for what's left behind in a letter Harry can't read, but he thinks that he loves Loki anyway. Despite everything.

Stark makes a dissatisfied noise. "Lame," he says.

Harry glares at him, shoving the hair out of his eyes at the same time – damn but he needs a haircut – and opens his mouth to retort only to have his face grabbed by Curain.

He's strong. Very strong, but Harry doesn't stop glaring even as a finger runs down his scar.

"Sowilo," Curtain says. He's giving Harry a very odd look and that – combined with the fact that no-one _ever_ touches the scar – quells Harry's anger somewhat.

"Huh?"

He's kind of glad that he's not the only one who has no idea what's going on. Actually, Curtain is the only one who seems to know at all.

"Cappuccino – I mean Loki – stared at it," he admits. "A lot. Why?"

"It symbolises victory, in our language. Asgardian."

Which means the man holding his face is a god. Harry tries to lean back but can't seem to take his jaw with him. It takes a soft "Thor" from Blue Spandex for him to be released. He leans back and rubs his jaw.

"So what, he's a good luck charm?" Stark asks. "Rub him and a genie pops out?"

Harry doesn't hex him, even though it's tempting – damn the Statute of Secrecy anyway. "May I see him?" he asks instead.

…

Loki is standing when they guide him into the room. The glass cell he's contained in is suspended over something, and Harry doesn't want to find out what would happen if they dropped it. He seems surprised to see Harry there – and definitely not happy. Not happy at all. The look his gives the S.H.I.E.L.D operatives behind him makes a shiver run up Harry's spine.

"Loki," Harry says. It gets his attention. He looks suddenly wary as Harry steps closer to the glass – close enough that his breath can fog the surface of it. "Loki." He cracks a smile that he knows doesn't reach his eyes. "I've been calling you 'Cappuccino' in my head all this time – you could have told me your name."

"You didn't –" Loki breaks off before he can finish his sentence.

"I couldn't," Harry tells him. "I didn't know how." He hears the agents shift behind him, but he touches the glass anyway, tracing the line of Loki's cheek with his fingertips. He stills when Loki touches back, aligning their fingers. It's clichéd and silly but Harry's heart still skips a beat.

"Human sentiment," Loki whispers. He seems almost frightened of something.

"Not part of the plan, I take it," Harry says. "Too bad." He makes sure Loki's eyes are on him when he mouths it through the glass. _I love you_. He doesn't want anyone to hear, even though he knows that everything he does is being recorded and scrutinised.

How can you fall in love with someone you don't even know? Hermione would say it was impossible – a combination of lust and empathy – but Harry's not sure he knows what love is anyway. He just knows that he doesn't want Loki to be hurt even though he knows he has to be stopped.

He mouths it again – _I love you I love you I love you_ – because he won't stand in the way of what's coming and they both know it. Then he steps away, leaving Loki standing in a glass prison. Eyepatch is watching them – his single eye narrowed suspiciously.

"You never told me your name either!" Harry turns. Loki is grinning at him. His teeth are white and shark-like and he can see why these people are so afraid. There's nothing like sanity in that expression.

"Harry," he says. "My name's Harry." Wistful nostalgia takes him over for a moment and he whispers "just Harry" as if he's still a child. But he's not – if he was a child, he couldn't have walked away.


	37. Normal II

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this.

**Spanderholic** asked for a continuation of 'Normal'

Normal II: Spotlit

by Evandar

Percy looks smart but nervous at the Yule Ball, and Harry – dressed up and awkward next to Parvati – gives him a shy smile and a wave. A line of tension in Percy's shoulders vanishes and he makes his way towards them. Parvati groans softly, no doubt remembering all of Percy's lectures on homework and good behaviour, but Harry ignores her – he can remember Percy's soft smile under lamplight at a family dinner and he wants to see it again.

"Hi," he says. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"Mr Crouch is sick, so I'm covering for him," Percy explains.

His prompt response could be seen as bragging, but Harry can see the way his fingers are tight around his water glass and knows he's just nervous even if he can't think why. Parvati shifts and sighs and looks longingly at the people on the dancefloor. Harry knows she's trying to drop a hint, but he doesn't take it. He's just realised that the one person in the room that he actually _wants_ to dance with is Percy.

He coughs awkwardly and takes a sip of his Butterbeer.

"How are you finding it? The Tournament?" Percy asks.

"Horrible," Harry replies. "I was looking forward to being a spectator."

Percy nods. "You didn't put your name in." Harry must look surprised because Percy flushes red and continues in a rush. "Mr Crouch thought that you had, of course, but after what you said this summer…it didn't strike me as something you would want to do."

Harry feels oddly flattered that Percy paid that much attention to him (though a little part of him wonders why Ron couldn't have done the same) and he smiles brilliantly. "Dance with me," he says. He's not sure where the words have come from exactly, but he can't take them back. "You don't mind do you, Parvati?"

Parvati looks at him like he's sprouted a second head, but mumbles a "no" anyway.

"I'm not sure –" Percy starts, but he cuts off when Harry takes his glass from his hand and places it on a nearby table.

"It's not appropriate and Ron will probably scream at me later," Harry says, "but I don't care." He guides Percy onto the floor and into the first steps of a dance until – mercifully – Percy takes over and starts to lead.

"I want to share my spotlight with you."


	38. Worth It

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this.

**WizardsGirl** wanted Harry/Marcus

Worth It

by Evandar

"You can't possibly expect me to apologise for catching the Snitch. It was right there! Above Malfoy's head! It's not my fault he was too busy pratting around to notice it. Marcus!"

There are times when Harry wonders why he bothers with Marcus Flint. The older boy is stubborn, obstinate, and occasionally brutal. Never to Harry, but to others – the Slytherin captain doesn't seem to have heard of fair play or gentlemanly behaviour and, Harry knows, he terrorises the school off the pitch as much as he does on it. But Harry's never felt afraid of him; Marcus makes him feel safer than anyone else ever has before, and with the school in seemingly constant danger someone who makes him feel safe is someone very important indeed.

Not that that doesn't make Harry frustrated when he's like this. He stops calling after him and throws his hands up in the air instead. "Fine!" he yells. "Be that way then!"

Their friendship had come out of nowhere – Flint had approached him shortly after his ability with Parseltongue had come to light. He had a pet snake and wanted Harry to ask it if it was happy. It had been. It had also been an ice-breaker and Harry had found himself enjoying Flint's company far more than he should have been. Hell, he'd even developed a tiny crush on the older boy. Flint wasn't handsome by anyone's standards, but there was something about him…

Not that it mattered. Harry was an idiot to even think of it. Even if his feelings were returned – which they weren't, obviously, if a single game of Quidditch could cause such a problem – there's such an age gap between them that the teachers would throw a fit if they dared to act on them.

He slumped back on the hospital bed and winced as he jarred the splinters of bone re-growing in his arm. If he wasn't stuck in the hospital wing because of Lockhart's stupidity then he might have run after him. Perhaps it was just as well, then, that the Defence teacher was such a moron. The last thing Harry wanted was to come across as desperate or – perhaps – like more of a moron than he'd already made himself into.

Marcus wasn't worth it. He wasn't.

Harry's breath hitched.

He wasn't.


	39. Dinner II

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _Naruto_ and am making no profit from this.

**AN:** I forgot to mention in the last drabble that 'Sowilo' and 'Thurizaz' – the _Harry Potter/Thor/Avengers_ drabbles – have been expanded and put into a separate story, posted on my profile under the title 'Sowilo'. Fans of those should definitely check it out as I'll no longer be posting continuations of those into 'Lacewings and Boomslang'. If anything more is written, it'll be done separately.

**May Eve** wanted a continuation of 'Dinner'.

Dinner II: Lunch

by Evandar

They'd been paired up with Team Seven for some training that day. Why, TenTen wasn't sure, but she suspected it was something to do with Gai-sensei's endless challenges to his Eternal Rival. The two teachers certainly seemed to be focussing on their latest contest – holding their breath – far more than they were on their students.

She gave up on target practise and slumped down on the grass next to Haruno Sakura, who had given up – winded and panting – half an hour earlier. Only the boys were still going. Naruto was taking Lee's hits with an obscene amount of stamina and the two brooding pretty boys – Neji and Sasuke – had decided to do their own thing. Sakura had been watching Sasuke with almost disturbing intensity, but she tore her eyes away long enough to greet TenTen with a smile. TenTen smiled back hesitantly and leaned back against the trunk of her chosen tree, closing her eyes in bliss at the feel of cool bark against her skin.

She wasn't sure what to think of Team Seven. Their dynamic seemed fragile and unhealthy to her, and the way Sasuke had acted during the Chuunin exams frightened her more than she cared to admit. She was glad that she had the team she had – the sensei she had, even if Gai-sensei was madder than a bag of cats.

Her eyes snapped open at the sound of a faint popping noise. None of Team Seven seemed to have noticed, nor had Lee, but Neji was looking into the trees behind her with his Byakugan activated and the oddest expression on his face. TenTen reached into her kunai pouch and gripped cool metal, preparing to throw at a moment's notice.

"Er, don't kill me?" said a familiar voice from behind her. She twisted round and looked up into Harii-san's brilliant green eyes. He smiled down at her and – not for the first time – she realised just how pretty he was. "I come bearing lunch," he continued, and held up a stack of bento as proof.

TenTen grinned. Lunch sounded amazing, and Harii-san was a brilliant cook. "Then you may join us," she said.

"Oh good." He stepped out from behind the tree and sat next to her. She blinked at his outfit. He was wearing blue trousers made out of some kind of rough material that clung to his skin and a T-Shirt with something written on it in characters she didn't recognise. There was a stick strapped to his forearm like some sort of weapon, and she wondered what it could do.

She accepted the box he offered her. "Hey guys," she called out, "lunch is here!"

"Yeah! Food!" Naruto yelled and TenTen suppressed a smile. Next to her, Sakura gave a huff.

"He's so rude," she complained, accepting her own bento with a soft 'thank you'.

Harii-san chuckled. "It's nice he's so enthusiastic, though, don't you think?"

TenTen wondered if that was what had attracted him to Gai-sensei. There had to have been something. It couldn't have been the spandex.

Their scattered group came together over lunch – Kakashi-sensei winning the breath holding competition only after Gai-sensei had noticed Harii-san's presence and broken his concentration to shout a greeting – and sat together in the most communal activity they had done all day. She couldn't help but notice the slight smile that passed between Gai-sensei and Harii-san as Team Seven – in the face of delicious food – began to open up and chat and actually come together, and she realised that Harii-san's appearance wasn't by accident or coincidence.

She grinned and sat back against her tree and said nothing. It could only be for the good.


	40. Regression III

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this.

**SadnessAndSorrow** wanted a continuation of 'Regression'.

Regression III: Potions

by Evandar

He knew it was out of character for Harry Potter to do well in Potions, but he couldn't help himself. It was a matter of personal pride that he not allow the failings of the teacher and the unruly members of Slytherin House taint his reputation even more than it already had been. Besides, he could always say that Harry had studied over the summer.

He snapped out his hand and stopped Godric from adding something completely unnecessary to his own cauldron. "Do _try_ not to blow us all sky high," he drawled. Two desks away, Snape paused in his rounds of the classroom and levelled a glare at him for speaking out of turn. The Slytherins erupted into furious whispers and giggles at the thought of Salazar's impending punishment, but Salazar ignored them. Slytherin House had gone to the dogs if _they_ were what qualified for it. Crabbe and Goyle alone…

"Harry, mate," Ron hissed.

Godric cleared his throat. There was a faint smile twitching at the corner of his mouth – the kind of smile that always tempted Salazar into kissing him, which would almost certainly make his current situation worse. "You can let go of my hand now, dear," he said.

"As you say," Salazar replied smoothly and released him.

The Gryffindor side of the room holds its collective breath as Snape swoops down on them, his black robes billowing out behind him most impractically. Salazar had preferred narrow sleeves and tighter fitted robes in his classroom for a reason – billowing fabric and open flames were not the best of combinations, but at least he could hold on to the hope that one day Snape would set himself on fire.

"Giving lessons, Potter? You think yourself so far above the rest of us mere mortals that you presume to give Longbottom orders? Such arrogance. Ten points from Gryffindor for –"

He cut off mid tirade as the contents of Salazar's cauldron caught his eye. A perfect brew. Salazar suppressed a smile as a vein throbbed visibly in Snape's temple.

For the first time since his reincarnation, he thought he was rather going to enjoy Potions.


	41. Snitch II

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this.

**IkutoisSmexy** wanted a continuation of 'Snitch'

Snitch II: Drowning

by Evandar

The practise snitch sat in front of him on the desk, next to a book on water-related charms that was proving utterly useless in his pursuit of a way through the Second Task. The last thing he needed was to conjure water when he was going to be swimming in the Black Lake. Hermione's disapproving look told him that the last thing he needed was the snitch that he was batting back and forth between his hands like a cat, and maybe that was true, but at least it was taking his mind off his impending doom.

"Harry, will you focus?" she hissed at him.

"Am focussing," he lied. "That book's useless." He huffed. "All the books are useless. I can't _swim_, Hermione."

He batted the snitch so hard that he almost didn't catch it that time. Hermione lowered her own book. "You can't? Oh Harry, you have to tell someone. Surely they won't make you compete if you have no way to do it."

"Binding magical contract, remember? I have to choose between drowning and turning into a Squib." He shrugged awkwardly, still not looking at her. "I think they would tell me to drown. Being a Squib seems to be a fate worse than death or something."

"Professor Dumbledore –"

"Can either do nothing or won't, otherwise he would have got me out of this already." Personally, Harry suspected the truth was closer to the latter, but he knew better than to say it out loud. Hermione's loyalty to the headmaster is all-encompassing. She would never believe the worst of him. Harry on the other hand…

He huffed and kept playing with the snitch. He'd had enough of adults who said one thing and then did the other, and Dumbledore – who said he wanted Harry to have a childhood but allowed him to chase after possessed teachers and monsters and criminals and to compete in dangerous tournaments without reprimand; who rewarded him for doing so, even – was top of the list. The most childish moments he'd been allowed in months had been given to him by Viktor Krum along with the snitch that he was currently using as a distraction. Those seeking challenges had brought Harry more peace than he'd felt in a long time, and he thought that he would always remember them. Always cherish it.

"Harry…" Hermione sighed. She reached out and took the snitch from him. "You can't give up you know."

"Give it back!" Harry snapped. He stole it from her unresisting fingers and immediately felt guilty. He knew she was only trying to help. "Sorry," he said. "Look, I'm just tired. I really don't know how to do this. I don't know what spell to look for to be able to breathe, let alone how to make sure I can actually swim by February." Or, for that matter, what would be taken from him.

He was praying that they would take an inanimate object, but somehow he didn't think that they would. The Triwizard Tournament was a cruel and sadistic thing, and he knew fine well that the worst option – a living, breathing human being – was probably the one that the judges would go for. Because he needed to be worrying about someone else drowning as water filled his own lungs. Lovely thought.

Hermione stayed silent. He glanced at her. She was looking at the snitch he still held clutched in his hand. "Where did you get it, Harry?" she asked after a while.

He swallowed. For all that he'd been playing with it in front of her, he'd hoped she wouldn't ask that. Viktor had taken her to the Yule Ball, after all, though he hadn't been with her often after that. He'd been studying on his own or with Harry – flying together in the evenings, watching the sun set from astride their brooms.

Harry hadn't wanted her to ask because he didn't want to hurt her.

"Diagon Alley," he lied.


	42. A Study in Black

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _Sherlock_ and am making no profit from this.

**AN:** Sorry about the wait, guys. I'm still caught in a full-blown _Avengers_ obsession and every time I tried to write this it mutated. Horribly. But! I have a Twitter now, so if you want to follow me and catch news about impending updates/RL crises, my username is hikarievandar.

**sunsethill** wanted a _Harry Potter/Sherlock_ crossover

A Study in Black

by Evandar

"Sirius Black has escaped prison – doesn't say which one – and no one can find him."

"Boring."

"Sherlock!" John lowered his paper to shoot a disapproving look at his flatmate/partner/very important person. "He killed thirteen people. That's not 'boring'."

"He's innocent," Sherlock argued. He was lying on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling with his hands pressed together over his chest. He was so still that John occasionally had to double check he was still breathing. The sight of Sherlock's mangled not-corpse still haunted his nightmares.

"How can you possibly –"

"He never received a trial."

"Innocent until proven guilty," John said. True enough, there was nothing in the paper about a trial. There was actually shockingly little information in the whole article. No mention of a prison, no mention of a weapon or how his victims had died. Simply that he had been convicted of killing them and was now loose. "But that would be a technicality, surely."

"I met Black when I was a child," Sherlock said after a long pause. "He was best man at my cousin's wedding, and godfather of her child. He's perfectly capable of murder – most people are, though they like to pretend to themselves that they aren't. Have you noticed that? Of course you have. You're a soldier."

John allowed the tangent. He hadn't realised that Sherlock even had relatives beyond Mycroft and the ever elusive 'Mummy'. He didn't talk about his family. At all.

"You never said anything," John said. "To the authorities, I mean."

Sherlock snorted. One of his hands lifted to flail in an arc over his head before resettling on his chest like some sort of bird. "They wouldn't have listened. Not to me, nor Mycroft."

John raised an eyebrow. Someone in authority not listening to Mycroft seemed impossible to him. Mycroft _was_ authority. But then, if Sherlock had been a child at the time, then Mycroft might not have been quite as powerful as he was now. He pointed that out to Sherlock and got a wry smile in return – it was the smile Sherlock gave when John had a good point but wasn't actually correct.

He sighed and folded the paper back up. "You could tell them now," he said.

"They still wouldn't believe me," Sherlock told him.

John flinched. "Sherlock," he said. "You've got your reputation back, you know."

"It's not that. Aren't you listening?"

He'd missed something. Either that or Sherlock had done that thing where he thought he'd told John something but had said it in his head instead of out loud. He'd stood up, at least, and was studying John with an oddly intense look on his face, as if he wasn't sure if John was entirely real or if he was going to evaporate at any given moment. He recognised the look as one he'd worn almost constantly when Sherlock had first returned.

What Sherlock said next was completely unexpected. "Will you marry me?"

John choked on air. How they'd gone from discussing Black to marriage proposals was beyond him – he didn't, and couldn't, pretend to fathom any of Sherlock's thought processes – and he wasn't entirely sure how to respond to it. He loved Sherlock, yes, but…

"Eh?"

Sherlock looked at him as if he was spectacularly thick. He might as well be, he supposed, since he felt like his brain had turned to soup.

"I want to tell you, but I can't," Sherlock said slowly, as if he was talking to a child. Or Anderson. "Not unless we're family, in which case, I would have to marry you. Or at least be engaged."

John managed to find his vocal chords. "Okay?" he said, then winced at how awful he sounded. "I mean, yes. Alright. Yes, I'll marry you."

Not the most graceful acceptance, but it would have to do. Under the circumstances. Not like it had been the most romantic proposal either, but then, Sherlock's idea of romance appeared to be admitting to being 'quite fond' of him and then not minding whenever John took his hand or kissed him.

"Good," Sherlock said. "Black's a wizard."

Again, John found his eyes watering as he somehow forgot how his lungs worked. "What?" he gasped out.

"A wizard, John." Sherlock crossed to the bookcase and started tossing the Encyclopaedia Britannica onto his chair, volume by volume. "A human capable of wielding magic through a medium. Black is one. Hah!" He pulled out a stick that had been hidden at the back of the shelf, twirled it between his fingers, and pointed it at the couch he'd been lying on moments before.

In response, the couch rose steadily through the air until it touched the ceiling. John stared at it in disbelief.

"Mummy's side of the family have been magical for at least a thousand years," Sherlock said. The couch lowered itself back to the floor. "Mycroft, though, can't do magic so no one in _that_ community takes him seriously."

He was using that special tone of voice reserved only for those found guilty of momentous idiocy. John looked back at him. He'd lowered the stick to his side and was looking at John with that _look_ again, and oh sweet Lord he couldn't breathe.

"You're a… Okay, never mind. Why haven't I seen you do that before?" He waved a hand at the couch.

Sherlock tucked the stick rather casually up his right sleeve. "It would make things boring," he said. "More boring. Imagine, if you will, the ability to do absolutely anything. Turn into an animal, fly, summon the TV remote and turn a tortoise into earmuffs."

All of those things sound fairly exciting to John, but he caught on to what Sherlock was implying. That magic solved every problem: it made you not need to think. And Sherlock…couldn't do that. Giving up something as incredible as magic would be logical to him, if only because it would make his life slightly more difficult.

"Ah," he said. Besides, Sherlock was dangerous enough without a magic stick on him at all times. He doesn't even want to begin _trying_ to think of the kind of things a super-powered Sherlock could get up to because even not-thinking about it is giving him a headache.

Then something occurred to him and he lifted his head – when had he started massaging his temples? – to ask. "I thought you said they wouldn't take Mycroft seriously because he wasn't a –" he still couldn't say the word 'wizard'. "But you clearly are."

Sherlock looked faintly irritated. "I bear a startling resemblance to my maternal grandfather," he said. He paused, frowning, but before John could ask why, exactly, that would be a problem, he continued. "He was evil."

John had never heard Sherlock call someone evil before. Even Moriarty had only been worthy of an occasional 'bastard' thrown in with the comments about his intelligence and scope of operations. Something must have shown on his face because Sherlock's lips twitched.

"Wizard Hitler," he said, "and everyone without magic, or with non-magical lineage was Jewish."

Oh.

"Not that their dislike of him passed to Lily, of course," Sherlock continued. "She was very…likeable. Like a puppy or some other small, furry, stupid creature. And then she married a Light wizard and fought against him and so on, so forth. And he killed her, of course, which made disliking her even harder because _everyone_ loves a martyr, don't they?"

John could see where this was going. He stood and crossed the room and placed his hands on Sherlock's hips, letting the taller man lean against him. Sherlock pressed their foreheads together, and when he spoke again, John could feel his breath fanning across his face.

"No one seems to remember that Lily was as much his granddaughter as I was his grandson," he said. "That we were cousins."

Sherlock was shaking. John could feel the muscles vibrating under his hands. He rubbed Sherlock's sides gently, lovingly, and tried to soothe him as much as he could without saying a word. He didn't want to interrupt because Sherlock _never_ talks about his family and John wanted to listen.

Even though he was beginning to realise that there was a very good reason for Sherlock not to.

"I'm too much like he was, before he went bad, for people to trust."

John swallowed, suddenly very aware of all the things he'd been told about Sherlock. That he was a great man, but that he needed someone like John to be a good one. He tightened his grip and held onto Sherlock tight.

"I trust you," he said.


	43. Paper Crane

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this.

**Lireach** wanted Harry/Draco

Paper Crane

by Evandar

Harry tries to ignore the note – shaped like a crane – that bumps into his temple. He manages the first three times, but when it smacks into him hard enough to make his glasses jolt, he gives in and snatches it out of the air. He can practically feel Draco's smirk from across the room. He can certainly feel the daggers that Hermione is glaring at him.

He feels like pointing out that this whole note-passing thing was very clearly not started by him, but that would draw Slughorn's attention and that's the last thing that he wants. So he endures the sniff of disapproval and unfolds the note.

For a moment, he doesn't realise what he's seeing. Then the way that the lines are moving on the page actually register and he feels his face flush crimson. He scrunches the note up small and stuffs it into the pocket of his robe. He ducks his head, trying and probably failing to hide the furious blush. He thinks he hears Draco stifle a laugh and has to resist the urge to hit him. They're beyond petty squabbles now, but Draco still never misses a chance to rile him up.

And how well he does it. Harry thinks he can feel the note burning a hole through the cloth of his robe. Any moment there'll be the smell of singing fabric and it'll become painfully obvious that Potter has porn in his pocket. He thinks that – hand-drawn or not – a picture of him fucking himself with his own broomstick would definitely classify as porn, especially since Draco had made it so detailed.

It is, in fact, completely accurate right down to the shape of the birthmark on the inside of Harry's thigh and the face he makes when he comes.

He barely manages to make it through class. As soon as they're out of the door he makes excuses to his friends – though he's not entirely sure what it is that he actually says because he's not really focussing on them – and heads off after Draco. He's not moving very fast, so Harry reaches him easily and doesn't hesitate to grab him by the wrist and drag him off down a different corridor.

"Enjoy it that much, did you?" Draco asks when Harry has him pressed against the wall, hidden in a tiny alcove.

"You're a complete git, you know that?" Harry replies, before leaning in and swallowing Draco's laughter with a kiss.


	44. Perfect IV

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this.

**Shadow Lighthawk** wanted a continuation of 'Perfect' with the prompt 'old soul'

Perfect IV: Improper

by Evandar

Twenty five year old men didn't share their laps and their cigarettes and their kisses with fourteen year old boys. Bill was pretty sure of that. He was pretty sure that, if they did, then they shouldn't. He knew that if one of his friends hit on Ron then he'd go spare and put some of the really nasty curses he knew into practise.

He was just a hypocrite like that.

But Harry wasn't Ron. Thankfully, Harry was leagues ahead of his youngest brother. Bill wasn't entirely sure how that was – something to do with the things he'd faced, maybe? – but he could see it in Harry's eyes. The boy was aware of the world in a way that Ron wasn't. In a way that Ron probably wouldn't be until he was far older.

Part of him felt like he was making excuses for his behaviour. That nothing, absolutely nothing, could give him the right to press Harry down to the grass and cover his face with kisses; that nothing – not even the soft moans Harry made and the way that his fingers tangled in Bill's hair – would ever excuse the fact that he was fourteen and Bill should know better.

But even his mother agreed with him. Before Harry had arrived at the Burrow that summer, she'd taken him and Charlie – the last ones in the family to meet the sainted Boy-Who-Lived – and told them a little about him. She'd finished off with _"he's such an old soul, the poor dear. I hope he can find some peace here"_ and a stare off into the middle distance. It was a stare Bill had often seen when she'd been fretting over Percy or the twins or, well, any of her biological children. It had surprised him, to see her fretting over someone who wasn't her own blood, but then again, his mother was such a _mother_ that she probably couldn't help it.

And Harry was certainly loveable.

Bill was smitten, even though he shouldn't be. He was addicted to Harry's milk-pale skin and his shadowy green eyes that knew too much and the wry twist of Harry's lips when he didn't believe what you were saying but thought you deserved a smile for trying anyway.

Bill was in love, which was why he was prepared to throw it all away.


	45. Monster

**Disclaimer:** I do not own either _Harry Potter_ or _FullMetal Alchemist_ and I am making no profit from this story.

**AN:** I'm baaaaaaaaaaaack!

* * *

><p><strong>Haytang<strong> wanted a _FullMetal Alchemist/Harry Potter_ crossover with Snape/Envy in a bondage situation

Monster

by Evandar

It was unnerving to see one of his students look at him in such a way; as if he were something to be torn apart and possibly devoured. But the thing in chains was not a student, even though it wore the face of one. Sally-Anne Perks was a Hufflepuff – a stereotypical one, for that matter. She was a kind, sweet, frail little thing who cowered if Severus so much as glanced in her direction. This, whatever it was, did not.

It leered up at him with a smile too wide for the face it wore and a cold look in its eyes. The one time Severus had risked using Legillimency – an art unneeded on Miss Perks, whose every thought had been written on her face – he had been brought up short by an elegantly crafted door that had filled him with insidious temptation. He didn't want to know what kind of mind lay beyond it, not when the barrier itself felt like a form of ancient dark magic.

"Who are you?" he demanded, not for the first time.

Pomona thought that the girl was possessed. She had been reported by her classmates for behaving out of character – suddenly malicious when before she had been their golden girl – and they had found her leaving the third floor corridor with troll blood on her hands. But Severus wasn't sure that he agreed with Pomona's diagnosis: there was no pungent, rotten stench around the girl as there usually was around possession victims, and there were other monsters than Lord Voldemort that would be lured in by rumours of the Stone.

He just didn't know what. Yet.

"Don't you recognise me, Professor?" the thing asked. Its mimicry was perfect, save for the tone. It was mocking when Miss Perks had been meek.

"You aren't my student," he replied, "so no. I don't. Who are you?"

At his assertion, the grin stretched wider – impossibly wide – showing teeth that were a little too large, a little too sinister for Miss Perks' face.

The eyes, however, remained cold and dead as a doll's.

Severus moved forward, drawing his wand and pressing its tip into the soft flesh of the thing's neck. If it had been Miss Perks, there would have been a cry of fear and pain. Instead, all Severus got was a laugh – not as high as Voldemort's, but just as wicked. It was a laugh whose owner tortured animals for fun.

"Do not mock me," he hissed.

The creature leaned into his wand-tip, turning its head so that if Severus had been so inclined, they could have kissed.

"Are you going to kill me Professor?" it asked.

Its voice had changed. What had been a near-perfect imitation of the girl it wore had turned into something oddly androgynous that sent a shiver running down Severus' spine. There was so much hate in it: such casual, disdainful hatred that was the complete opposite to Voldemort's fury, though there was no doubt in Severus' mind that it could get angry if it wanted to. Apparently it thought it more amusing to play instead of rage.

"If I have to," he said, and it laughed again, cool breath washing over Severus' ear.

This close, the thing smelled of chemicals. It had a harsh, artificial scent that didn't match its shape. It smelled like something Severus might scrape out of one of Longbottom's cauldrons.

It was far from comforting.

Far less comforting was the glowing, silver phoenix that swooped through the door at that moment. Dumbledore's Patronus. Severus drew away from the thing shackled to his dungeon wall and stood to face it, dreading the worst.

While he had been babysitting, the rest of the staff had gone out to search the grounds for any sign that this was not the real Miss Perks. And sure enough, when the Patronus opened its beak, the voice that echoed forth was heavy with grief.

"We found her, Severus, on the edge of the forest. Pomona is informing her parents."

Dead, then. There was a clink of chains from behind him as the thing that definitely wasn't Sally-Anne Perks shifted in its bods. It had killed her, an eleven-year-old girl, for the Stone that Dumbledore had brought into the school to test the Boy Wonder.

It had made her the first casualty of a new war.

More clinking. Severus wracked his brain to think of a message to send back to the headmaster, but he had nothing concrete. Just a strange smell and mental defences that terrified him.

"What are you?" he asked, turning to look at it again.

It was no longer bound. Nor, for that matter, did it look like his dead student. Its hair had lengthened and turned green; the pale skin of its almost skeletal body was bared by a skimpy purple outfit, and violet eyes slit with vertical pupils glared up at him, belying its eerie smile.

It was only when it took a step towards him that he saw it: the mark on its left thigh. A red dragon devouring its own tail; one of the most powerful symbols in all of Alchemy.

He pointed his wand at it. "Get back against the wall."

The thing looked him up and down, judging him. "You're not my type," it said eventually, smile not fading. "Although, I could be yours."

Unbidden, the image of Lily rose in his mind. If the thing could turn into anything…but no. Lily was too sacred to be tainted by this monster – to have her lovely face twisted into its rictus grin and the blood it had spilled staining her slender hands. She would have hated him for ever considering it.

But his wand-hand had wavered for a moment, and the thing was suddenly in his face. Chemical breath reeked as it whispered to him, and long fingers closed around his wrist, snapping it with ease.

They wouldn't catch it again, Severus realised as he watched its face change in a flash of red light. Nor would it be coming back. It had what it wanted, and as fingers jabbed into his neck and turned his vision black, he wanted to laugh.

The Stone was a fake, and the monster that wore his face would get away with murder.


	46. Hallowed II

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this story.

* * *

><p><strong>Dragonazar<strong> wanted a continuation of _Hallowed_.

Hallowed II: Summoned

by Evandar

"You don't learn, do you?"

He'd thought he might be back here, and he's not sure that he's pleased he was right. The symbol of the Hallows is drawn on the wooden floor in chalk, and candles flicker at the points of the triangle. Beyond their yellow glow stand two familiar figures, and Harry isn't exactly happy to see them again.

He is amused, however, by the differences in their expressions. Dumbledore is looking at him with resentment and suspicion; his bright blue eyes are narrowed and his lips thin. He stands with his arms folded over his chest, one hand holding his wand, and half in a sort of duelling stance. Grindelwald, though, stands close to the candlelight and it makes the curls of his hair dazzle with gold.

He is excited, eager to see Harry again and to learn what he can, and – going from the faintest flush on his cheeks – Harry suspects he's been remembering the kisses too.

He would have given another, had this not been such an obvious set-up. Grindelwald is certainly handsome enough for him to entertain the idea of it.

"Well met, friend," Grindelwald says. Behind his back, Dumbledore visibly grits his teeth.

"I'd have preferred it if we hadn't met again," Harry replies. He smiles, but doesn't mean it, and it comes out more like a grimace. "Not like this."

He steps up to the boundary of the symbol on the floor, and this close, he can feel the power that thrums through it. It is powerful, but it's tied to the Hallows, to him, and if he wanted he could rip through it like tissue. He doesn't; not yet, because this close he can also feel Grindelwald's breath on his cheek and see tiny flecks of gold in his eyes.

Grindelwald is young and foolish, and Harry can kind of see what Dumbledore sees in him, but he is too much of a fool.

"We have a few questions," Dumbledore interrupts. Grindelwald licks his lips and takes a step back so that his friend – boyfriend? – can take over. But his gaze flicks repeatedly to Harry's mouth, and Harry wonders what he's more interested in: the Hallows or Harry.

"The Hallows," Dumbledore says. "How did they come to be yours?"

For a very long time, Harry had wondered if the Dumbledore that had been his headmaster had ever intended for him to become Master of Death, or if he had meant Harry to truly die in that clearing. He also wondered – if the Hallows had been part of the plan – if Dumbledore had fully understood the fate he was consigning Harry to. An existence unshackled by death and time: utterly free and completely alone.

Perhaps that was why Harry found screwing with his younger self so entertaining.

"They're mine because I didn't want them," he says, and it's the truth, as unbelievable as that must sound to them. Sure enough, he can see in Dumbledore's face that he thinks Harry is lying; even Grindelwald looks sceptical.

"Then you can relinquish them," Dumbledore says.

"Not at all," Harry replies.

_And certainly,_ he thinks, _not to you_.


	47. Turn the Sky IV

****Disclaimer: ****I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this story.

* * *

><p><strong>917brat<strong> wanted a continuation of _Turn the Sky_

Turn the Sky IV: Inside your Embrace

by Evandar

He stepped out of the main lodge, having left his 'esteemed guests' behind him, straight into the green stare of his Fiend. Harry was perched on the wall of the building opposite, hanging upside down with his claws digging deep into the limestone and his head turned almost the whole way around.

Charlie grinned and crossed the courtyard towards him, reaching out to brush his fingers gently over the smooth scales of Harry's cheek.

He had spotted Harry flying over him several times as he'd guided the visitors around the reserve; they hadn't. Diggory had been too busy flinching at every roar; Crouch had been utterly disinterested; Bagman had been like an excited child most of the time, only growing quiet when they got close to the dragons they'd come to see. They'd wanted nesting mothers for the restarted Triwizard Tournament, and had offered a lot of gold for them – gold that the reserve desperately needed.

Not that the money meant any of the dragon keepers were happy about the offer, Charlie least of all. As one of the only native English speakers on the reserve, he was expected to travel with the dragons and their eggs to Hogwarts to make sure that the terms of the loan agreement were met and that the dragons were kept in the best health possible. But going to England again would mean having to leave Harry behind, and that was something he objected to – Harry was everything to him.

Harry, who was nuzzling happily into his hand, and who was trying to overcome his possessive mating instincts and who trusted Charlie to stay with him forever. Harry, who would probably never forgive him if he put eggs in danger like the Ministry wanted him to.

There were so many things that he wanted to say that he couldn't find the words for that he sighed and gave up, bowing his head and studying the faint green patterns on the underside of Harry's jaw.

Harry spoke up suddenly. "Fly," he said. "Our nest. Don't be sad."

And how unfair was it that Harry could sense his mood with just a flick of his forked tongue?

"See you there," Charlie agreed, and he stepped back so that he wouldn't get hit by a wing as Harry somehow managed to take off and twist himself the right way round at the same time.

888

Their nest, in Harry's mind, was the cliff top where Charlie had first kissed him. Not that Charlie stayed there; he had a warm and cozy room in one of the lodges that was far more comfortable that a rocky precipice. Even Harry barely stayed there, choosing instead to perch in the rafters of Charlie's room – Fiends did _not_ sleep on the ground – but their nest it remained.

Charlie had learned not to argue the logic.

Harry was already there when he arrived, perched like a gargoyle right on the edge, wings slightly raised for balance and the tip of his tail dangling down into the air. Charlie landed next to him and sat with his legs over the side, his broom discarded. If he fell – and he had a couple of times – then Harry would catch him.

"They want me to take dragons to England," he said after a while.

Harry didn't like babbling. It confused him too much. Charlie had learned to speak his mind with no tact as a barrier, though he still wondered how to do it sometimes.

"To the school I went to, so that they can be a problem in a game."

Harry's toes tightened their grip and the resulting scrape gave Charlie goosebumps. He said nothing.

"They want nesting mothers," Charlie finished. "Danger is more exciting."

The last was said over an angry hissing that Charlie knew contained words – the kind that would make a sailor blush and his mother smack him with a spoon.

"I don't want to go," he said, "but if I say no then I could lose my job and I would have to leave."

Over the edge of the cliff, Harry's tail wound its way around his calf and held on tight.

"I can go," Harry said.

He sounded terrified. He was fully-grown – had been for years – but he was still young and had never seen the outside of the reservation except from the air. Charlie tried to imagine him flying over the buttresses of Hogwarts or nesting on the roof of the Burrow, and couldn't. Harry was part of the reserve; he was the mascot. He was protected and respected while in England he would be seen as some kind of vicious Dark creature.

He couldn't take Harry into that.

He stroked the edge of a wing, stroked over soft, warm scales, and drew Harry closer to him. Harry's wing moved to embrace him and he leaned into Charlie;s chest, tilting his face up to receive gentle kisses.

"I know you would," Charlie told him. "But you have to stay here."

Harry's answering growl sent vibrations through his chest. But no matter how much Harry wanted him to, Charlie couldn't explain. How could he? How could he explain things like Dark and Light and prejudice when Harry had experienced none of it? How could he say it was dangerous without making Harry insist that he stay for his own protection?

"You belong here," he said eventually, murmuring the words into Harry's pointed ear. "I belong here. I'll come back."

He'd always come back.


	48. One Way or the Other

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this story.

* * *

><p><strong>KingsandaQueen<strong> wanted some angsty Fred/Harry/George

One Way or the Other

by Evandar

He'd noticed the disapproving looks, heard the whispers behind his back, and seen Malfoy's leer and the nudges that passed amongst the older students. Of course he had. He'd also noticed the twins' pranks growing more vicious, more pointed, and the way that they exchanged looks over the top of his head when he begged them to just ignore it.

It was just like Second Year, he told himself. Just like the start of this year when his name had come out of the cup.

But it wasn't.

Ron was disgusted by him again, even though they'd only just made up a few weeks ago. Hermione pursed her lips and frowned every time she saw him, even when he was alone. Parvati and Lavender shared vicious giggles at his expense, and Dean and Seamus were even worse. He suspected they were the ones that nicked his underwear and threw it out onto the Quidditch pitch.

Out of all his year mates, only Neville hadn't turned against him, but since he hadn't stood up for him either, Harry wasn't sure that meant anything.

Even Fred and George were affected. Ginny had screamed and thrown hexes at them with tears streaming down her face; their mother had sent a truly epic Howler the day after Skeeter's article had been published; Ron was giving them the silent treatment as well. Even Lee Jordan, usually their closest friend – outside of one another and Harry – had suddenly found a burning desire to bond with his cousins in Ravenclaw.

The Quidditch team – and thank heaven there weren't any practises this year – was divided as well. On one side there was them; on the other was everyone else.

Angelina had slapped Harry when she'd found out that Skeeter's article was, for once, based on the truth. She'd been crying, and that was why Harry had held back the twins when she'd called him a whore and demanded why he had to have them both.

No one believed him when he said it was because he loved them.


	49. Shadow

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this story.

* * *

><p><strong>Haytang<strong> wanted a _Yu Yu Hakusho_ crossover with Hiei/Harry

Shadow

By Evandar

There was a shadow living in the Forest. At first, when Luna had told him, he hadn't believed a word of it, but then he'd chanced a loot upwards during Hagrid's lesson with the Thestrals, and he'd seen red eyes watching the class from one of the trees. They'd been set in a pale, handsome – almost feline – face, and they'd vanished as soon as their owner had seen Harry looking back at him.

It had taken everything he had not to yell in surprise and make everyone believe he was even crazier.

"He's not here to hurt us," Luna told him later when he asked her what she knew. They stood together in the clearing, throwing scraps of meat to the Thestrals. "He's like them, I think. Better than he appears."

There was an indignant "hn" from the branch above their heads. Harry caught Luna's eye and grinned.


	50. Perfect V

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this story.

**Shadow Lighthawk** wanted a continuation of 'Perfect' with jealous!Ginny

Perfect V: Rivals

by Evandar

"You've spent a lot of time with Harry this summer."

Ginny's comment was toned with perfect innocence, which meant, of course, that it was anything but. Bill felt the hair on the back on his neck stand on end. Fair enough, he hadn't exactly been as subtle as he should have been, but there was a big difference between flirting with his youngest brother's best mate and having someone thinking that he was actually acting on it.

And while he wasn't ashamed, not really, he still wasn't quite ready for his parents to find out that he was dating a fourteen-year-old, and he wouldn't be ready until that thought stopped making his brain squirm.

"He's an interesting kid," Bill said. "Funny. Smart. Reminds me of some of the blokes at work."

"In Egypt," she said.

"No, Gin, in Goblin-dom Underground." Worried by her perceptiveness or not, he couldn't quite hold back the sarcasm. His baby sister was such a baby sister, playing at manipulation and subtlety with the implicit threat of telling Mum if he didn't play along.

Though, to be fair, he was the one sneaking around with her childhood fantasy behind her back.

"Does he talk about me?" she asked.

"Not really," he said. "Don't think he's interested in girls yet."

She hummed and folded her arms under her breasts in a perfect mimicry of their mother. "He kept looking at Chang last year," she said. "I saw him."

And the jealousy burning in the pit of his stomach is both completely irrational and not there at all.

"Seekers tend to look at each other, Gin," he said. "Part of the game, keeping your eye on your opponent."

"What do you know about Quidditch?" she asked. "You're scared of heights."

He's not entirely sure that they're still talking about Quidditch. He raises an eyebrow at her, at her complete and utter bull-headed sincerity. 'Keeping your eye on the opponent' indeed. What is his life that he's fighting over a boy with his thirteen-year-old sister?

What is his life that he's won?

"That doesn't mean I don't know the rules," he pointed out, "and you'd be amazed what I can do with sufficient motivation."

Her lips parted and a flush bloomed in her cheeks and the tips of her ears. For a moment he thought she was going to yell and tattle to Mum as soon as she came running. But then she straightened up and, unfolding her arms, tossed her long hair back over her shoulders.

She'll be gorgeous one day, he thought.

"So would you," she told him. "I owe him a life-debt, you know. I'm what people expect: a good Light witch from a good family. We have similar interests, and I'm _his age_. I have him at school, Bill. When you're off in Egypt, I'll be by his side."

He raised his eyebrows, forcing himself to remain calm even as his heart hammered in his chest.

"I thought we were talking about Quidditch," he lied.

She scowled and turned away, flouncing off and leaving him to catch his breath. "Fuck," he muttered.

How was this his life?


	51. From the Boneyard

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this story.

**Fox.** wanted a creature!Harry fic

From the Boneyard

by Evandar

"James was the same, you know," Sirius said.

He was the first of the witnesses to bring Harry's real self up. Ron apparently wsn't speaking to him anymore and Hermione went pale every time she caught him looking at her.

"Really?" Harry asked dully.

Sirius nodded and took his hand in his own. His fingers felt even bonier than Harry's, and Harry felt himself grin at the thought even though he really didn't feel like it.

Ron and Hermione had hurt him a lot. Fair enough he was far from attractive, but he'd thought it wouldn't matter. He'd hoped their friendship would be strong enough to survive it, although his big reveal hadn't happened the way he'd hoped it would.

Lupin hadn't been the only one to change in the moonlight, but it had been Harry who had made Hermione scream the loudest.

"All the Potters were," Sirius continued. "It's a family trait."

"Curse," Harry correct him.

"Trait," Sirius argued. "Story goes that one of your ancestors was a necromancer who made some sort of deal with Death. Ever since, the Potters have been Ghouls: not dead, not alive, and bloody hard to get rid of."

Harry knew that. His uncle had 'accidentally' run him over once. He'd fallen and broken his neck while running from Dudley, he hadn't needed Fawkes to cure him from the Basilisk venom like he'd claimed, and if Lockhart had kept his wand to himself then he would have healed in minutes on his own.

This pseudo-immortality hadn't saved his Dad from Voldemort, so what good was this 'trait' when all it did was keep him from joining his family and bring a divide between himself and his friends?

But Sirius was looking at him imploringly so he gave a nod and a shaky smile that he didn't feel at all.

"Thanks," he said.


	52. Speak Softly

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this story.

**KingsandaQueen** wanted Snape/blind!Harry

Speak Softly

by Evandar

Ron's comments about Snape were mostly visual – "ugly", "greasy old bat", "bloody vampire, swooping all over the place" – but Harry, who had never seen anything, had learned to 'look' through his other senses instead.

The first thing he liked about Snape was that he didn't shout – not unless someone was rude or did something idiotic in his classroom. Usually, when people spoke to Harry, they shouted as if he was deaf as well as blind. Snape didn't. He spoke quietly, knowing that Harry's sharp ears would hear him, and the sound of his voice made Harry sigh with pleasure.

Deep, low, richly accented. Yes, the first thing Harry loved about Snape was his voice.


	53. Perfect VI

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this story.

**Smileadaykeepmeaway** wanted a continuation of 'Perfect' with Harry dancing

Perfect VI: Revelation

by Evandar

It had been discussed in many letters, debated and deliberated, and it was an absolutely terrible idea – too public, too soon, too everything – but Harry had his heart set on the idea and Bill couldn't bring himself to disappoint him.

Still, he couldn't quite believe he was walking into Hogwarts' entrance hall in his best dress robes – a dark shade of gold, embroidered with green, and worn over a midnight blue tunic. He knew he looked amazing, but also far, far older than most of the others present.

His embarrassment – dear heaven, even McGonagall was staring! – faded when he spotted Harry. He was all dressed up in emerald green, and Bill was surprised by how much older he looked in clothes that actually fit him. (And he vowed right there and then to drag Harry out shopping as soon as he could.)

Then Harry spotted him and waved, his whole face lighting up with joy, and this whole debacle was suddenly worth every agonising second. He'd walk through fire for that smile; a school dance – albeit one that was part of an international tournament where Harry was centre stage and dear heaven what was he _thinking_ – was nothing.

And as soon as Harry was tucked under his arm and smiling up at him, Bill knew he was completely screwed.

He didn't care. He didn't care that McGonagall's lips had practically vanished thanks to the strength of her disapproval, of that the French Veela chick was apparently torn between incredulity and disappointment. He didn't care that Ron – okay, what was he _wearing_? – had his jaw on the floor or that the twins were stunned speechless or that Ginny was red-faced from Fury.

He didn't care because Harry was nestled into his side and grinning like a love-struck idiot and he was just so perfect there that Bill couldn't bring himself to give a damn what anybody else thought about it. Not anymore.

At least, not until it made the headlines tomorrow.

Harry – his Harry; there was no denying it now – stayed in his arms for the rest of the night. He smiles and laughed and flushed pink every time he stepped on Bill's toes. And at the end of the night, when they were one of the last couples on the dance floor and stood swaying in each others' arms, Harry tilted his head back and guided Bill down for a kiss. He kept it brief, chaste, more a brush of lips than anything, before he pulled away and gave Bill that beautiful smile once more.

"Thank you."


	54. Touch II

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this story

**Egyptian FireFly** wanted a continuation of 'Touch'

Touch II: Kinesis

by Evandar

A swat on the head meant 'pay attention' and 'stop teasing in front of the others' – it was usually delivered when Harry, bored of tales he couldn't understand, started casually groping Beowulf under the table.

A slap on the back, when it was Harry's turn to tell stories, told him he was a fine warrior deserving of his place in Valhalla; the squeeze of his shoulder that always accompanied it said 'I'm sorry you had to go through that'.

A weighty hand on the back of his neck said 'you belong to me', and large fingers closing around his hip said 'I want you'. It gave Harry some warning that he was about to be pulled away from the feast and the mead and be pressed down onto the bed they'd taken to sharing (or up against a wall, whatever).

Sometimes he objected with a head swat of his own; most of the time he didn't.

A brush of knuckles against his check or the swipe of a thumb over his lip, or an extra serving of roasted boar at dinner all meant the same thing: 'I love you'.

Words were overrated.


	55. Nesting II

**Disclaimer:** I do not own either _Harry Potter_ or _Yu Yu Hakusho_ and am making no profit from this story.

**AN:** I suppose this is where I admit that I haven't seen any of YYH beyond the 'Chapter Black' arc and have no idea at all what Yomi is like. So guys, I'd like to leave this story here, because I have no way to watch it, and if I try to write Yomi into this then it's going to be absolutely horrible for everyone involved. So no more 'Nesting'.

**Zept** wanted a continuation of 'Nesting'.

Nesting II: Paranoia

by Evandar

His dinner was brought by Yomi's new lieutenant. "I regret to inform you that Yomi – my Lord Yomi – will be unable to join you until later," the fox demon said as he brought in Harry's tray.

He food was plain and simple, more to Harry's taste rather than his unborn child's, but there was a small plate of finely sliced raw meat that – under other circumstances – he wouldn't have touched with a barge-pole.

He tried to sit up, but found himself struggling. He felt like a turtle flipped on its back. Kurama knelt by his side to help, but Harry automatically flinched away from his touch.

Kurama was perfectly nice to him. He always had been. But Harry had heard the stories of his his mate had lost his sight. And despite Kurama's perfectly pleasant, benign behavious, there was something Harry found creepy about him. (He was just too perfect, wasn't he?)

Harry shoved himself into a semi-sitting position and took the tray, balancing it on the curve of his belly. "Did he say why?" he asked.

"A meeting with the captain of the border guard," Kurama replied. He smiled and tilted his head to the side, looking utterly guileless, but still Harry couldn't help but see the coldness in his eyes; the flecks of gold that came from his true, malicious form.

"Is there anything else you need?" Kurama asked.

"No," Harry told him. "Thank you."

Kurama bowed, his red hair falling like a curtain between them, and then stood. Harry watched him as he crossed the room to the door, watched as he left, and only when he heard Kurama's footsteps fade away did he draw his wand.

Whispering detection charms, he waved it over the tray Kurama had brought him, looking for poison in the food or on the utensils of even on the tray itself. He hadn't found anything yet, but he couldn't trust Kurama enough to stop looking.


	56. Rewind

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this story.

**Lady Luna Riddle** wanted Harfang Longbottom/Harry

Rewind

by Evandar

Whatever he'd been expecting to happen when he woke up after being hit by the Killing Curse (again), the sight of Neville leaning over him was not it. He yelped, jerked upwards, and cracked their heads together before his brain could kick in and tell him that there should be Death Eaters around here somewhere.

But there was no one. No one but him and Neville and a couple of birds twittering in the tree tops.

"Bugger!" Neville said. "Aye, tha'll teach me t'get too close, like."

Harry blinked. Neville's accent - usually only faintly northern – was out in force today. Come to think of it, his clothes were different too. Harry looked his friend up and down, taking in the rich robes and the dark blue – currently watering – eyes, and then realised that the boy whose nose he'd just headbutted…wasn't Neville Longbottom.

They just looked creepily similar.

"It's not broken, is it?" he asked.

Not-Neville shook his head, but didn't stop pinching the bridge of his nose. "Divvent fret," he said. "Yer 'ead migh' be thick an' all, but nae 'arm done."

When he lowered his hand he was grinning Neville's grin, all crooked at one side.

"Sorry," Harry said. "Um."

"Harfang Longbottom," the boy said, stretching out his hand. "An' I tell't ya, divvent fret…"

Harry got the cue. "Harry Potter," he said, and took Harfang's hand in his own. It was larger than Harry's, and warm, with callouses from his wand on the palm.

He didn't expect what Harfang said next.

"Potter?" he aksed. "Charlus nevah said 'e 'ad a brother, but aye, I can see it now. Yer t'spit of 'im."

Harry stared at him in disbelief, before turning his gaze to the rest of the clearing before his panic could be noticed. It was a peaceful place, without the slightest sign of a Dark Lord or his minions.

"Y'alreet?" Harfang asked.

"Oh, yeah," Harry replied. "Fine."

He was so screwed. Charlus Potter had been his grandfather.


	57. Back Chat II

**Sakamoto Itoe** wanted a continuation of _Back Chat_

Back Chat II: Confrontation

by Evandar

_Misora Naomi – suicide – at 12:45 she leaves her conversation to kill herself. She speaks to no one and dies in a place her body cannot be discovered._

He didn't get a reply to that. His other experiments with the Death Note had heralded commentary from the Shinigami King after every entry. The King – the Master of Death – as he called himself would critique his work. Apparently he thought Light's ego needed deflating.

He was wrong. Light was in the right, and with the Death Note he would rule this world. He was purifying the human race, and anyone – anything – that didn't agree with him would die.

He'd asked Ryuk if Shinigami could die; if their King could die.

Ryuk had admitted to the first, but informed Light that it was near impossible and couldn't be done with a Death Note anyway. The second he'd answered with eerie, cackling laughter.

But Misora's death, close call that it had been, had resulted in nothing. No response at all. Even after two days worth of entries, there was nothing.

_Hello?_ Light wrote.

Nothing. He had won.

The Shinigami King was leaving him alone now. He continued with university and his noble cause and was just starting to make hesitant inroads to the Kira investigation when the reply came.

The first thing he noticed was Ryuk. Usually, he spent his time in Light's lectures lazing around by the ceiling, singing tunelessly and watching L – waiting for something interesting to happen. That day he fell silent and stood bolt upright in midair. Light felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck as the small hairs rose in response to the sudden clench of fear in his gut. He was being watched – not just by Ryuk and L, but someone else.

He slid the piece of the Death Note he kept in his wallet into view. Familiar spiky letters, written in bright green ink, stared up at him.

_Behind you._


	58. Glacial III

**Disclaimer:** I do not own either _Harry Potter_ or _InuYasha_ and am making no profit from this story.

**Ravienna Si Absole** wanted a continuation of 'Glacial'

Glacial III: Convention

by Evandar

"Tell this Sesshoumaru, then, why war should not be declared, Potter-san."

His first knee-jerk response was to hide behind the ICW and the Avalon Convention, but then his brain actually kicked in and – thankfully – he stopped to think before he said anything.

Lord Sesshoumaru watched him with those cold, golden eyes; his face blank as a china doll's. He was completely still – inhumanly so – and that was the problem.

The Avalon convention, which stated that magical wars were to be avoided at all costs, was only applicable to humans. Lord Sesshoumaru was anything but human, as were most of Japan's magical population. They were predominantly youkai of varying degrees and species, with only a few fully human members of society. The Avalon Convention didn't apply. Neither did most of the ICW's other laws. In fact, the only ones that might were the ones regarding the hunting of endangered magical creatures, but he was _not_ going to mention those.

His death would be slow, painful, and filled with glowing green claws.

Even so, the more he thought, the more Lord Sesshoumaru seemed to have a point. He wasn't human, so he was seen as inferior to the international community – particularly to Britain. To the Minister, Lord Sesshoumaru was an exotic potions ingredient that had got 'uppity'.

Harry took a deep breath. He knew that he was a hostage; he might as well try to be as honest as possible in the time he had left. (He wasn't going to rely on the Hallows when he was up against something he hadn't seen before.)

"It's what they expect you to do, Sesshoumaru-sama," he said, "and being predictable is boring."

He saw a gleam in the demon's eye, and thought that maybe honest had been a good thing.


	59. Raphaelite IV

**Disclaimer:** I do not own_ Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this story.

**sunsethill** wanted a continuation of 'Raphaelite'

Raphaelite IV: Indelible

By Evandar

The forest green of Salazar's robes had got under his fingernails, he realised, as he stared down at his hands in an attempt to avoid Hermione's gaze. There was a tiny smudge of cobalt blue on the side of his thumb, and he had to think for a moment before he remembered that he'd used it on the view outside Salazar's office.

The flecks of teal were easy. They were the shadows in the folds of Salazar's robed and the jewels in the clasp in his hair.

A hand slapped down on the table in front of him, dragging him back to the present. Hermione looked upset: her cheeks were flushed and her hair frizzier than normal. The hand that wasn't planted on the table in front of him was curved over the swell of her belly. Ron had finally knocked her up; Harry had missed the original announcement – he'd been restoring Ravenclaw at the time – so he'd been surprised by it when she'd barged into his flat ranting that "enough was enough".

"Would you listen to me?" she shrieked. "Harry, this has gone on for far too long."

"What has?" he asked. He'd tuned her out the first time.

"This! This reclusiveness! Harry, you need to come outside. You need to eat. Kreacher's dead, Harry, you need to stock your own fridge now – do you know what I found in there? Your milk was practically sentient! I know that you like the bachelor life, but it's killing you. If not the loneliness, then the E-Coli certainly will."

"I'm happy," he said, and she growled. And, okay, she had a point about the milk. He'd neglected things like shopping in favour of his project.

"I'm working on something," he said. "I'm just busy, Hermione."

"With what?"

"I can't say," he replied. "It might not work, anyway."

That was his biggest fear: that he would do this and still end up alone.

Hermione sighed."We're worried about you," she said.

"I'm fine," he replied. "Honest."

He couldn't quite remember when he'd started lying to his best friend so often. He wasn't fine and he knew it. He was angry at McGonagall and the portrait of Dumbledore; he was angry at himself; nervous about his experiment; terrified it wouldn't work. He couldn't sleep, couldn't eat – though apparently that was just as well – and he kept seeing bits of Salazar everywhere. The viridian of his eyes was smeared across the back of his hand, while his lips' carmine ran in smears up the inside of his wrist.

Salazar was painted right onto him. If it didn't work, Harry was sure he'd go mad. Judging from the look Hermione was giving him, it was possible he'd gone mad already.


	60. Entail III

**Disclaimer:** I do not own_ Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this story.

**IkutoisSmexy** wanted a continuation of 'Entail'

Entail III: Courtship

by Evandar

Contrary to the hopes of everyone he knew, Regulus had not backed off at the start of term. They couldn't meet in person, of course – Dumbledore was hardly likely to let Regulus onto school grounds – but that didn't mean they couldn't write.

And write Regulus did, with swooping, spidery handwriting that was both achingly similar to Sirius' and completely different at the same time. Even though Harry had promised himself he wouldn't, he couldn't help looking for similarities. It wasn't fair, he knew, on either of them.

The letters themselves varied wildly in content. Some were very informative on the inner workings of the Death Eaters and various Dark spells (the mention of which made Hermione hiss as she inevitably read over his shoulder) while others were more personal. Regulus seemed determined to get to know Harry like he had promised.

He was a complicated man. He was Dark and good; deadly serious about most things but capable of disarming that seriousness with charm and a wicked sense of humour. He was intelligent and worldly and, as their letter grew more frequent, Harry found himself liking Regulus more and more.

More for himself, even, than for Sirius. He had a sneaking suspicion that Sirius would have approved.

Ron and Hermione certainly didn't.

Hermione insisted on reading every letter, scanning them for clues of a deception. That she kept failing to find anything only made her more determined.

Ron, when he wasn't too busy shoving his tongue down Lavender Brown's throat, would make lewd, cruel comments about the history of the Black family and its reputation (forgetting, of course, that Harry was not the head of it) that betrayed his liking of Sirius.

Both of them kept trying to nudge him towards Ginny, who had taken to giving him wide-eyed pouts and accidentally-on-purpose glimpses down her school robes. She and Dean had had a fairly spectacular break-up because of it, and Harry still wasn't interested.

Ginny's long red hair and doe-brown eyes did nothing for him. He hadn't told anyone, but he was starting to dream of black curls and elegant hands and a deep, soothing voice.

So it was against Hermione's advice and Ron's callous comments that he accepted Regulus' invitation to meet at the first Hogsmeade weekend.

…

They met at Hogwarts' gates. Regulus was dressed in a dark blue cloak over his grey robes, and his hair was loose about his shoulders. He was handsome as always, but what really made Harry's heart skip was the way he smiled as soon as he spotted Harry heading in his direction.

He raised his hand in greeting but changed the gesture on the fly when a gust of autumn wind blew his hair over his face. Harry grinned wider at that and hurried his steps until he was at Regulus' side, looking up at the older man.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi yourself," Regulus replied. The warmth in his voice and his eyes was so genuine, so powerful, when Harry stood this close that he knew. He just knew.

Ron and Hermione were wrong about everything.


	61. Moristar

**Disclaimer:** I do not own_ Harry Potter _or _The Lord of the Rings_ and am making no profit from this story.

**Enge Black** wanted a crossover between _Harry Potter_ and _The Lord of the Rings_

Moristar

by Evandar

Rarely did Haraldir leave the archives and libraries of Minas Tirith, but now he did so. The worry in Faramir's heart was great: his vision troubled him, as did Boromir's lonely path northward and the battles of will his father fought with the growing Shadow in the east.

Haraldir had agreed, seeing that fear and feeling it mirrored in his own heart, to travel north as well – to go to Rivendell ahead of Boromir and await his arrival. It was for the best, though he was loath to leave Faramir behind. Such things as Dark Lords could not be left ignored.

He had not expected the ring.

Gandalf had greeted him warmly, but given no hint of what the Council was to reveal. Boromir – once he had arrived and heard Haraldir being greeted as one of the Istari – had been startled and then surly in his presence.

"I had thought you a librarian," he'd said. "You – and Faramir, I suspect – have kept grave secrets from Gondor and its Steward."

Haraldir had shrugged at that. "I missed being just Harry," he'd replied, for he had known better than to lie to Boromir's face. To do so would invoke not only his wrath but Faramir's as well, and he did not wish for discord to grow between them so.

Boromir, though, had not believed him, and had not further sought Haraldir's company.

Then there and come the Council. And the Ring.

The Ring.

He shuddered in his seat and turned his eyes away as memories from before his healing in Valinor arose in his mind - of soul fragments and Dark Lords and long-gone friends.

"It's a Horcrux," he said. "A piece of Sauron's spirit forged into the metal." The Gaunt ring felt cold and heavy on his finger as he spoke, and he clenched his hand into a fist.

"You have come across such things before," Gandalf said, though whether it was a statement or a question Haraldir could not tell.

"Once," she said, and said no more. The Ring was different from Voldemort's Horcruxes. Its evil was deeper, more complete; the sorcery that had created it unmatched. His memories, growing clearer though they were, could do no good here.

But he did pledge the Elder Wand in service of the Ring Bearer. Faramir would never have forgiven him had he not…and apparently, his 'saving people thing' was yet strong within him.


	62. Second Chance III

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this story.

**mykyou** wanted a continuation of 'Second Chance'

Second Chance III: Application

by Evandar

"Professor Merryweather's leaving," Tom says. He speaks lightly, but Harry knows that it's something that he really wants to talk about. He pushes his Potions essay to the side – Slughorn is far more bearable than Snape ever was, and Tom is an excellent tutor – and focuses his attention on his lover.

"So?" he asks. "So are we."

Tom taps his fingers on the table in that way that means he's frustrated or nervous.

"She spoke to me after class, remember?" he asks. "Said I'd be a shoe-in for the job."

He bites his lip. He's definitely nervous, and Harry knows exactly why. He'd been waiting for this, for Tom to start thinking of teaching at Hogwarts as a career. His rejection the first time around had sent him further down a slippery slope that – this time – he hasn't yet started on.

"It's up to Dippet, though, isn't it?" Harry asks him. "Besides, I thought you wanted to go travelling after school. See the world, rediscover the lost island of the snake-people, do something exciting."

They'd talked about it several times, built castles in the air and promised each other forever.

"I do," Tom replies. "It's just…Hogwarts is my home, Harry. I've never had anywhere else."

Harry reaches out and covers Tom's hand with his own. Immediately, Tom flips his hand over and laces their fingers together, gripping tight as if Harry is some sort of anchor.

"Apply, then," Harry says, "if you want to. It can't hurt." He's not entirely sure of that, but he hides that just like he hides so many other things. "But, you know teachers can't have visitors, right? We – if you got the job – we wouldn't see each other very much."

Tom grimaces. "I hadn't thought of that," he says. He lifts Harry's hand to his lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles. "India, then?"

Harry laughs, relieved, and stifles it immediately to avoid the wrath of the librarian. Madam Pince's predecessor somehow manages to be even more terrifying, though she – like most of the staff – adores Tom and tolerates his friends well enough as well.

"India," he agrees.


	63. Denial

**Disclaimer:** I do not own_ Harry Potter _or _Naruto_ and am making no profit from this story.

**Phantom Feline** wanted a crossover between _Harry Potter_ and _Naruto_ with a Harry/Itachi pairing

Denial

by Evandar

His mission was long. It was delaying his plans. But, Itachi had to admit, it was almost worth it. This strange place of magic, its school…they were fascinating if uncomfortably foreign at times, and his charge was, to say the least, easy on the eyes.

It was a D-Rank dressed up as an S-Rank for the sole reason that it involved so much time out of Konoha and interacting with people so far removed from the Shinobi lifestyle that it was almost ridiculous. They had no martial arts training here, few weapons other than their wands, and while some of the jutsu – magic – they learned could be used in combat, the students were taught to turn pineapples into earmuffs instead of how to defend themselves.

It was easy, it was frequently dull, but it paid extremely well and the number of people out to kill, maim, or otherwise endanger his charge meant that it definitely had its upsides.

And his charge's bright green eyes and crooked smile had in no way swayed his opinion. Not at all. Nor had the shy glances that were becoming more frequent or the way that Harry-kun brushed their hands together whenever they stood next to each other (which, as Itachi was his bodyguard, was frequently).

The rosy flush that bloomed in his cheeks whenever Itachi returned the gesture had nothing to do with it either.


	64. Antichrist

**Disclaimer:** I do not own_ Harry Potter _or _Supernatural_ and am making no profit from this story.

**Enge Black** wanted a crossover between _Harry Potter_ and _Supernatural_

Antichrist

by Evandar

The kid buried his face in Bobby's shoulder when he picked him up. He was a tiny little thing with wild black hair and the greenest eyes Bobby had ever seen, and he was five. Well, that was the closest Bobby could figure – the rest of the coven's victims had been five. All taken from their first schools; all of them dead within a week.

All except this one. Bobby had ganked the bitches first.

He took the kid back to his motel room and helped him get cleaned up. Then, once the kid was all comfortable and drowning in one of his softest plaid shirts, he spoke.

"I'm Bobby," he said.

The kid watched him with those big green eyes and said nothing.

"I'm not going to hurt you, kiddo. I just want to get you home. You want to go home, right?"

The kid nodded. He lifted his hand and stuck his thumb in his mouth. It made him look even younger.

"You got a name, kid?"

"'Arry."

"Hiya Harry," Boby replied. He felt like they were getting somewhere at last, and he smiled reassuringly. "Where's your Mom?"

"Dead."

Or maybe not. He winced. "Your Dad?"

"Workin'."

Alive, at least. That was something.

"He got a number? You wanna call him?" He dug his phone out of his pocket and held it out. For a moment Harry didn't move, and he wondered if the kid even knew his Dad's number. He had to stat remembering that little Dean Winchester was not a normal kid and that he shouldn't make assumptions based off his behaviour.

But then Harry moved. He took his thumb out of his mouth and took the phone, dialling the number with unexpected confidence.

His Dad picked up after the first ring. Christ, the guy was probably frantic – parents usually were. Hopefully he wouldn't freak out too much. His kid had taken the whole experience pretty well for a tyke, but kids were resilient.

"'M okay, Da," Harry said. "Mr Bobby saved me from the witches."

Weirdly resilient, this one.

Then Harry looked up at him and held the phone out. "Da wants to speak to you," he said.

Dreading the inevitable reaction – "Witches? What the fuck are you telling my kid? What the fuck are you doing with him? Are you some kind of paedophile?" – he certainly didn't expect what he got instead.

"Where are you?" the voice on the other end of the line asked. It was rough and deep, and with the same British accent that the kid had. "He's not hurt is he?"

"He's fine, mister…"

"Name's Crowley."

"Mr Crowley. He's a bit bruised, a bit shaken up, but he's okay."

"He'd better be."

The last was more growled than spoken, and the sound of Crowley's already gravelly voice lowering like that sent a shiver down Bobby's spine.

"He is," he promised. "You wanna come pick him up, or should I drop him off somewhere? We're in Jerusalem."

"I'll come for him. Which motel?"

Bobby told him, and heard a click as the line went dead. He lowered the phone and looked down at Harry, still sitting ensconced in the cheap motel chair, peering up at him from under his messy fringe. The id was sucking his thumb again.

"He's coming," Bobby told him, but there was no reaction, like the kid was expecting it.

There was a knock at the door. Bobby looked up in surprise, and so did Harry. "Da," he said.

There was no way in hell the kid was right. It wasn't humanly possible…oh. Harry's eyes were very, very green, weren't they? And he was taking this situation far too calmly.

Hell.

He checked the salt lines before opening the door to a handsome, dark-haired man dressed in a black suit and shoes that probably cost more than Bobby's house. There was no new car in the parking lot; no sign of how he could have appeared except for the faintest smell of sulphur on the breeze.

Saying "Christo" was probably a bad idea, but he did it anyway, and the demon shuddered violently even though his eyes didn't change. They stayed dark and not entirely friendly, and they stayed fixed on Bobby's own as he reached for the shotgun he'd tucked behind the door.

"You have someone of mine," the demon said. Behind it, growls echoed across the parking lot and invisible claws cut grooves into the concrete. A crossroad demon, then. A demon with the exact, gravelly voice that Bobby had just heard over the phone.

He'd suspected right, then. Fuck.

His fingers had just closed around the cool metal of the shotgun barrel when a voice from behind him spoke. "Da!"

The look on the demon's face promised an eternity of torment if he didn't move to the side and let Harry out. Even so, he was tempted not to – since when did demons have children? – until he heard the kid say "Growly!" and heard the replying bark; felt the air of it against his thigh.

The demon smiled humourlessly. Bobby stepped aside. As soon as he did, Harry was out of the room and into the arms of the demon. It cradled the kid close, much like Bobby had done just an hour earlier, and stroked a gentle hand over Harry's messy hair.

"This is Mr Bobby," Harry said, twisting slightly so that he could see his rescuer. "He saved me."

"So he did," the demon murmured. Bobby was too distracted by how similar they looked – could Harry _really_ be its child? – to notice how close the demon was getting until its breath was washing over his face. The demon smelled of sulphur and whiskey and expensive cologne, and its lips were soft and warm against Bobby's own.

The kiss lasted only for a second before the demon was back out of punching range. The shotgun he was still loosely gripping was useless too – he couldn't use it when the thing was holding its kid; not when he'd just saved the kid's life.

"I'm a fair businessman, Mr Singer," the demon said. How it knew his name, Bobby knew better than to ask. "A life for a life and all that," it continued. "You need help, just call."

And he was gone, Harry and the Hell Hounds with him, leaving only the taste of Glen Morangie and – tucked into the back pocket of Bobby's jeans – a business card.

Slick bastard.


	65. Tastes Like Apples

**Disclaimer:** I do not own_ Harry Potter _or _Death Note_ and am making no profit from this story.

**mykyou** wanted a crossover between _Harry Potter_ and _Death Note_ with a L/Harry/Light pairing

Tastes like Apples

by Evandar

He'd arrived in Japan to investigate the Kira murders because it was so damn obvious that a Shinigami was behind it somewhere. Random heart attacks in otherwise healthy individuals screamed of a Death Note; that the deaths were all of criminals told him it was in the hands of a human.

Lucky for him, L had announced that his killer was in Japan's Kanto region. It had narrowed the field enough to him to let his magic do its thing as soon as he'd landed in the area. He'd been able to follow the taint of death magic like a shark would follow blood and finally, finally he'd narrowed in on the source.

The Shinigami hovered over a university student. The student in question, with his neat clothes and handsome face and natural-born arrogance reminded Harry of the memories he'd seen of a young Tom Riddle. It didn't endear him in the slightest.

The Shinigami fell silent every time he approached. It was a big enough reaction to draw the boy's – Kira's – attention every time, and as his attention was drawn, so was his friend's.

The friend. He, Harry liked.

He looked like junkie had had a baby with a panda, with his chalky white skin and the huge bags under his eyes. Either the guy was a chronic insomniac or there was some vampire somewhere in his bloodline. Judging from the too-dark-red of the lollies he was constantly sucking on, the second was just as possible as the first.

He studied them as they studied him. The three of them circled round each other – testing and spying and researching – and as they got closer, the more the Shinigami shuddered with fear.


	66. MCIS II

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or _NCIS_ and am making no profit from this story.

**AN:** Sorry guys, but I'm going to have to back out of any more continuations of this as well. I haven't seen _NCIS_ in about four years and have no way to watch it either.

**ileleana** wanted a continuation of 'MCIS'

MCIS II: Mortician

by Evandar

Working with Agent Potter was something of an eye opener. Every time he turned up to join them on a case, they knew it was going to be a weird one. He couldn't use a computer to save his life (or theirs), but could read three dead languages and speak two others that didn't seem to originate from human vocal chords. He explained things with a kind of bendy-logic – "well, it might not have originally been a terrapin" – that made Ziva look like she wanted to stab things, and the way that he acted around Gibbs – professionally distant, but weirdly intimate – made Tony's brain conjure images that, really, he didn't want to think too hard about.

But the weirdest thing about working with Agent Potter was the way he acted around dead people.

At every crime scene, he would only enter a room after the body had been taken away. He would physically jump away from the gurney as it passed and more than once, Tony swore he'd seen him vanish with a pop just to get out of the way, and he would never – under any circumstances – enter the morgue.

It was…weird. The blood didn't bother him, or the smell as far could Tony could tell; it was only the corpse itself. Or the pieces of it, as the case may be.

"Is it a cultural thing?" he asked after seeing Potter pop out of a room as soon as he realised that the body was still in there.

"Hmm?" Potter looked up at him in confusion, and not for the first time Tony cursed his eyes for being so – ha ha – bewitchingly green.

"You," he said. "Corpses. You avoid them."

"Ah." Potter cleared his throat and looked a bit embarrassed. "Not really."

"Informative," Tony muttered.

Potter grinned, all charmingly lopsided and dimpled, and he laughed just a tiny bit. "It's just me," he said. "Death has a horrible habit of not working around me." He twisted the ring on his right index finger – something he only did when he was nervous, Tony had noticed. The humour was completely faked, and if he hadn't noticed Potter's tell then he wouldn't have known at all.

"Zombies?" he asked, taking a wild guess.

"The proper word is Inferi, but yes," Potter replied. "It's not an overly helpful 'gift' – illegal in most countries, awkward at funerals, and utterly useless in our line of work. You have to incinerate them to stop them, and that tends to destroy evidence."

"Yeah," Tony replied. "It does." He hadn't actually expected to be right, terminology notwithstanding.

He'd thought Potter was weird before. Weird, but attractive; turned out he should have added creepy to the list as well. There was something just wrong about making zombies by getting too close to a corpse, and how the hell had he discovered the funeral scenario?

He shuddered slightly and promised himself that he wouldn't ask. There were some things that really shouldn't be asked about.


	67. Serpent Tongue

**Dislaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _Naruto_ and am making no profit from this story.

**Phantom Feline** wanted a _Harry Potter/Naruto_ crossover with Harry/Orochimaru

Serpent Tongue

by Evandar

He could have made an accusation, when Orochimaru arrived at their apartment late and smelling faintly of chemicals that made the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand on end, but he didn't. Nothing got Orochimaru's back up more than the implication that he was suspected of doing something he shouldn't – even if he certainly was.

Most people in Harry's place – with a lying lover sneaking in after dark – would suspect an affair. He didn't have that luxury. The big tip off was the smell of formaldehyde that clung to his pale skin even after he'd showered, but there were other things too. Most of the people in the village thought Orochimaru was too creepy to be considered attractive, even though he was. They avoided him out of habit and looked askance at Harry every time they so much as stepped outside together. There was the way that Orochimaru seemed to hiss around his words now – so much that Harry had to physically stop himself from slipping into Parseltongue sometimes – and the way that his skin felt dry and papery to the touch. There was the way he was pulling away from Jiraiya and Tsunade and his sensei. There was the way his eyes seemed to linger sometimes on the Resurrection Stone that adorned Harry's right index finger.

There were the disappearances.

Harry kept his breathing slow and even as Orochimaru slid into bed behind him, his hair still wet from the shower, and he kept his eyes closed as an arm slipped around his waist and a kiss pressed to the back of his neck.

He could live through anything that Orochimaru did; he wasn't sure if he could survive it.


	68. Plans Change

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this story.

**lilsandstag** wanted a fic with fem!Harry/Barty Crouch Junior

Plans Change

by Evandar

It was one thing to know a plan; quite another to stick to it. He'd seen her first at the Quidditch World Cup. While Winky had hidden her face in her hand and cringed in fear, he had found himself entranced. To him, not even the Veela could compare to her beauty. He'd barely managed to steal a wand from the pocket of the Weasley next to her; he'd been fixated on the wild black curls of her hair and the hint of pale neck he'd glimpsed every time she'd turned her head.

He'd only seen her face twice that day; once when she'd spoken so gently to the House Elf. She was, by far, the most beautiful witch he'd ever seen.

And, as it turned out, she was the witch who had brought the fall of his Lord and Master: Charlotte Potter, the Girl Who Lived. The girl he was sworn to destroy.

She always sat at the front in his classes, eager to learn and attentive, flanked by Granger and – when he wasn't consumed by jealousy – the youngest Weasley boy. Dumbledore, he knew, was hoping for a match between the two of them. He would be disappointed: Potter was too powerful, too lovely, and too strong to allow herself to be shackled to someone so hopelessly mediocre.

The second time he'd seen her face, she had been looking right at him. His cloak had slipped and she had caught a sight of him through the trees as Winky had dragged him away. The look in her eyes at that moment had been breathtaking. He'd seen her then as the woman she would be instead of the school girl she was: a witch unmatched by any peer.

He'd fallen in love with her than, despite his loyalty to his Lord and their plan. Despite knowing that Dumbledore watched her closely and would disrupt any suit presented to her lest it interfere with his plans. Barty loved her, he loved her, he loved her.

And he would have her.


	69. Normal III

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this story.

Normal III: This Waltz

By Evandar

"I do believe this is one of the most…spontaneous things I've ever done."

It would probably have sounded more like an insult if Harry hadn't known that Percy – most likely thanks to the twins – had grown up associating spontaneity with spider attacks and acid-pops inside more innocent candy. Routine was safe for him; spontaneity was danger.

In this case, the danger is Harry stepping on his toes.

But, when he sneaks a glance up at Percy's face, he's smiling. His ears are flushed red with embarrassment, but he's grinning in a way that Harry's never seen before. It makes him look more like Bill – his glamorous oldest brother – and Harry's heart skips slightly at the sight of it.

"I think you like it," he says, and immediately wants to smack himself for sounding like an idiot.

But Percy laughs, embarrassed but genuine, and his wide grin turns into something more fond. "I think I do," he replies.

His grip relaxes a little on Harry's waist, and Harry takes the opportunity to shift a little closer. Percy is warm, and dancing with him is oddly comfortable, and Harry knows that this probably breaks some sort of Tournament rule – and knows that he'll probably get some sort of lecture on that later from Hermione – but frankly, he doesn't much care. He didn't want to be in the stupid thing anyway; what he wants – even though it's something he's just realised – is to dance with Percy like this all night.

So he does. Their steps slow and they sway together in a far more manageable way, and he rests his head on Percy's shoulder – he feels Percy's breath hitch when he does it, but he's pulled closer rather than pushed away – and when he leans up for a kiss at the end of the night, Percy catches his lips like it's the most normal thing in the world.

Harry thinks he'd rather like it to be.


	70. Hatchling II

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or _Temeraire_ and am making no profit from this story.

**AN:** Have now successfully moved countries. Hello Thailand!

**917brat** wanted a continuation of 'Hatchling'

Hatchling II: Unorthodox

by Evandar

It was, apparently, a matter for the school governors. And, once Lucius Malfoy had caught wind of what his 'special pet application' was in regards to, the Ministry of Magic as well.

So it was that, not a week after she'd hatched, Harry found himself sitting before a grim-faced board of witched and wizards, holding Norberta (Hagrid's idea for a name, and really, he'd had her first) in his lap and scratching her lightly under the chin to get her to hold still. It worked, but it also made her purr, and that was making the board stare at them even more.

He listened as the law was laid down. Dragon-breeding was illegal: they were highly dangerous creatures and Harry was endangering the entire student body by keeping her and not sending her off to a reserve.

The highly dangerous creature in his arms gave a little coo when his scratching fingers hit a sensitive spot, and she arched into the touch, begging for more and purring so much that she squeaked.

But it was good, wasn't it? That the board were watching them while Mister Diggory spoke, because the dragons he was talking about were nothing like Norberta at all.

"I know that it's unusual," he said, when the politicians finally decided to allow him to talk. "But she's not a danger to anyone. She's tame already."

Her tail wrapped soothingly around his wrist, and her purrs reverberated in his belly, and he waited.


	71. Hazard Pay

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _Naruto_ and am making no profit from this story.

**CkyKing** wanted a _Harry Potter/Naruto_ fic with Yamato/Harry and the theme of a jinchuuriki and their handler

Hazard Pay

by Evandar

The extra money was appreciated, and Harry understood fine well that there was a certain level of risk involved in being a Shinobi – especially once you reached ANBU level – and that Yamato was one of the best and had certain advantages that would help him with the job Hokage-sama had in mind…but that didn't mean that Harry was pleased that he was taking it on.

There was a big difference between knowing that your lover could be killed by a nameless, faceless someone from a far-off village, and knowing that he could die at the hand – claw? – of the super-powered teenager that sometimes ate in your restaurant.

Naruto-kun was sweet. He was loud, brash, and his manners were appalling, but he was kind as well, and haunted in a way that Harry could understand. He knew what it was like to have a monster sealed inside of you – though Voldemort could never have matched Kyuubi no Kitsune in his wildest imaginings. He knew what it was like to be outcast as well, and looked down on by neighbours and classmates, and that was why Harry hadn't followed the trend and banned the poor kid from his premises in the first place. (Naruto-kun tended to create a ruckus, regardless of whether or not he actually wanted to, and – when he was younger, especially – rather bad for business, even though he certainly didn't intend _that_.)

As it was, the first session didn't go too awfully, and Yamato returned to him safely with Naruto-kun at his side and Kakashi-san following with his nose in that awful book. (Harry had, on more than one occasion, been tempted to set it on fire, but he _was_ supposed to be a civilian here, and civilians didn't get the better of Shinobi.) None of them were bleeding or injured, and if Naruto-kun looked a little downcast at first, he soon brightened when Harry told them their bill was on the house.

He squeezed Yamato's shoulder tightly after taking their order, and for a second their eyes locked before Harry made his way to the kitchen. Yamato was fine. Harry just had to hope that he would stay that way.


	72. The Forest No More

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _Lord of the Rings_ and am making no profit from this story.

**Kactus Wrynn** wanted a _Harry Potter/Lord of the Rings_ crossover with Harry/Legolas

The Forest No More

by Evandar

Legolas had met wizards before: Radagast the Brown, of course, was a common sight in the forest lands of his home, coming and going as he pleased and speaking with the animals with a skill that rivalled that of any elf. Mithrandir too had wandered so far as the woodland kingdom – most recently at the Battle of Five Armies – time and again, though his journeys took him further afield than Radagast's ever did.

They were both alike, in Legolas' eyes. They appeared as old, bearded Men with a spark that glowed within them, and they seemed to favour eccentricity to an almost alarming degree.

Legolas met his third wizard at the Council of Elrond, though he did not know it at first. The wizard appeared as an intriguing stranger; young-looking: his face smooth and unlined, and his hair raven-black without a hint of grey. His slim hands clenched the arms of his chair as the story of Saruman's treachery was told, and Legolas saw within him a fire that burned cold and fierce.

"Saruman is learned in Ring-lore," Gandalf said, "and long has he studied the arts with which Sauron created them."

"Not all such arts lead to treachery," the young one spoke up, "or am I accused as well?"

Silence fell over the Council for a moment as Gandalf and the stranger stared at one another. Legolas found himself leaning forward, curious and wondering, before the silence was broken by a dwarf.

"And who are you?" he asked, stroking the long white beard that he wore tucked into his belt. (He, among the dwarves, appeared vaguely familiar, and Legolas wondered if he was one of those who had been part of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield all those years ago.)

"Ah," Gandalf said. "Forgive me, Master Gloin. This is Hyperion the Black, the sixth member of my order."

The Black wizard – now identified – bowed his head in greeting, before turning his attention back to Gandalf. "Well?" he asked.

"No," Gandalf said. "I accuse you not."

That seemed to please him, and he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands together in his lap. As they moved, Legolas spied a ring set with a black stone on his finger – it caught his attention because the stone caught none of the bright sunlight in its facets; it lay cold and dead as the void instead. A shiver went down his spine, and he tore his gaze away, looking up at the wizard's face instead.

(He was handsome, he thought, in an elvish sort of way – slim and pale, full-mouthed and noble.)

The wizard was watching him, and he was smiling faintly, as if he knew the sudden fear that had struck Legolas' heart. His smile was sympathetic; his eyes were warm and kind – and green! Not in all his years had Legolas seen such green eyes before. They were bright and brilliant as beech-leaves in summer, and in them lived the same spark of light he had seen in Gandalf and Radagast.

Fell arts he may have studied, and a wicked thing may rest on his finger, but Legolas could believe no evil of him. Not like the Man of Gondor was doing. In fact, when Hyperion stood from his chair at the end of the Council and pledged his aid to the Ring-Bearer as surely as Legolas had done, he felt relieved.

A second wizard could be no bad thing, and one whose gaze was as comforting as summer would do much for Legolas' morale.


	73. Worth It II

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this story.

**dArK-dAeMoIs-DeA** wanted a continuation of 'Worth It'

Worth It II: Apology

by Evandar

"You were right."

Harry tried to ignore him, but he couldn't. Marcus was a hard person to ignore. Even when he was quiet, it was impossible: he had a presence. Ron and some of the other Gryffindors put it down to his build. 'Troll-like' they said, meanly, but it was true that Marcus was tall and broad-shouldered, and that was definitely part of it. He also had a habit of looming over whoever he was talking to, which was another part.

But that couldn't be all of it; Harry noticed him every time he walked in a room, regardless of whether Marcus wanted to speak to him or not.

He looked up from his essay. Marcus was standing on the other side of the table, looming as usual, but looking more regretful than he usually did when he acted like an ass.

"Pardon?" Harry asked.

"You were right," Marcus repeated. "It wasn't your fault. You did your job, like you were supposed to, and it's not your fault that Malfoy's a bloody idiot."

Harry couldn't quite stop himself from smiling at that, but it faded quickly. He was angry with Marcus. He'd had no right to speak to Harry the way he had after the match. It had hurt, and it still hurt.

"Did you rehearse that?" he asked.

"A little bit," Marcus admitted. "Can I sit down?"

"Free country," Harry told him, and returned to his essay. He didn't write more than three words. It was hard to focus when he was being stared at.

"Harry."

"Marcus."

"Look, I was a prat, okay? I know I was," Marcus said. "I don't know how else to say it."

"Then don't," Harry said. He looked up again, and was surprised by the hurt look he caught flashing over Marcus' face. He sighed. "I didn't mean that," he said. "Well, I did. You hurt me a lot. You shouldn't have spoken to me like that."

"I know."

And as much as Harry wanted to hold a grudge, he knew that he couldn't. He was helpless in the face of Marcus' sadness, not to mention his own misery. He missed Marcus. A lot. He missed the warm, safe feeling he gave, and the shy smiles and the occasional bit of advice on how to deal with Snape. He missed talking (civilly) about Quidditch and how Malfoy was a prat and Binns was worse than useless. He missed talking with Zephyr, Marcus' snake.

He didn't say it out loud. "Don't do it again," he said instead, and smiled when Marcus grinned at him. They were okay.


	74. The Rest

**AN:** Hi! Wow, but it's been a while since I wrote any of these. The (very good) reason for that being that, in between moving house three times and countries twice, I lost the notebook where I was keeping all your prompts. Having finally found it again…time to write! Thank you all for your immense patience.

* * *

><p><strong>history<strong> asked for Hufflepuff!Harry

The Rest

by Evandar

There was absolute silence when the Hat lifted from his head. With its brim no longer drooping over his eyes, Harry could see a sea of shocked faces staring up at him. He didn't move. He couldn't. There was no applause for him; no cheers or welcoming smiles. The Hat had told him he'd make friends.

It had lied.

McGonagall touched his back gently, urging him up and off the stool so that the Sorting could continue. He stumbled down the steps and walked towards his table – ears burning with embarrassment as whispers and giggles sprung up around him. He thought he saw Malfoy laughing at him outright and ducked his head even lower.

"Load of old duffers," Hagrid had said. Did that mean that Harry was defective, then? He'd been looking forward to magic so much; maybe he should have stayed with the Dursleys and gone to Stonewall High instead. He'd still have been a freak, but he might have had a chance at making friends there, what with Dudley going off to Smeltings. It wouldn't have been brilliant, not with the elephant-skin uniform Aunt Petunia had been dying for him, but it would have been better than here. Here, he didn't have a chance. Not anymore. The Hat had lied. Everyone had already read all about him in some stupid book and decided that they knew him already – even the people from non-magic families like that Hermione girl from the train had done it. They'd decided he should be a Gryffindor; he'd proven them wrong, and he'd lost all chance of friendship in the process.

He sank into his seat at the end of Hufflepuff table and bowed his head, avoiding the stares and whispers as much as he could. He'd survived Privet Drive. He could survive this.

* * *

><p><strong>AN2:<strong> This was basically inspired by the very negative comments made about Hufflepuff House in the early parts of the first book, and is an exploration of how a Harry, fresh from the Dursleys and with low self-esteem, would take being Sorted there.


	75. Solitaire

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _X-Men_ and am making no profit from this story.

**AN:** I've only ever watched the _X-Men_ films a few times and, got to admit, didn't enjoy them at all apart from _X-2_. So this was kind of a challenge, and while I'm surprised it turned out as long as it did, I'd prefer if I wasn't asked to continue it.

The numbers-thing was taken from _Death Note_.

* * *

><p><strong>Kactus Wrynn<strong> asked for a _Harry Potter/X-Men _crossover with Harry/Logan

Solitaire

by Evandar

Harry wasn't used to visitors. In fact, he hated them. He'd left England and moved to a remote corner of Canada just to avoid them – and people in general – so having a Muggle jet do an emergency landing in the plot of land that made up his back yard was very much out of the ordinary. He was miles away from the nearest flight path, after all; these people should not have been flying overhead.

He watched from his living room window, cup of tea in hand, as the plane came down, and by the time the knock came, he was already by his front door.

There was a small group of people on his porch, all of them dressed in matching jumpsuits that denoted them as some sort of team. Above their heads, visible only to Harry, were the timers that counted out their lives in breaths and heartbeats. Harry shuddered. _That_ was why he hated being around people.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Can I help you?" he asked. He didn't exactly want to come across as friendly, but…the sooner these people left, the better. And if he had to help them to get them going, then help he would.

"We, uh, crashed," said a guy with a strange red visor over his eyes.

"No…really?" Harry replied. "You want a mechanic?"

There was a collective grimace. "We need to call _our_ mechanic," visor-face said. "Specialist equipment. Have you got a phone we can use? Our cells are dead."

They'd been knocked out by Harry's wards, most likely, along with the plane if they'd been flying low enough. His wards were powerful, and they took exception to any and all technology that Harry hadn't – personally – adulterated to work within an electro-magical field.

He hesitated, briefly, before opening the door wider. "The phone's in the kitchen," he said. "Knock yourself out."

They filed in past him; visor-face first, followed by a beautiful woman with dark skin and a shock of bright white hair, a red-haired woman, and a rough-looking guy who made Harry turn and stare in disbelief. Not because he was good looking, though he was, but because the numbers above his head that should have been ticking down towards his death were stationary.

Just like Harry's were.

He must have made a noise of some sort because the woman with the white hair looked at him and smiled kindly. "Where are your parents?" she asked.

Harry scowled. It wasn't _his_ fault that he hadn't aged since that second Killing Curse. "They died forty years ago," he said.

It was her turn to be surprised, and glanced at her burly friend – the guy was too busy trying to look like he wasn't eavesdropping to notice it, but Harry did. She knew about his numbers, somehow; she had to.

"You're a mutant," she said.

"So I've noticed," Harry replied. He…wasn't entirely sure of that, but he supposed he might as well be. 'Master of Death' was too weird even for wizards.

Her smile faltered a little in the face of his attitude. "We are as well," she said. "We work at the Xavier Institute. It's a safe place for people like us. If –"

"No thanks," he said, cutting her off before she could offer him anything. Offers would be too dangerous. For all that he liked to pretend otherwise – even to himself – he _did_ miss other people…deep, deep down. But he knew that joining them would be torturous, just like it had been in England. He'd be stuck watching and waiting as they slowly died in front of him, too distracted by the numbers to relax.

But one of them wouldn't die. One of them would understand. Even now, he was watching Harry with sympathy and curiosity, and even now Harry longed to reach out for him.

He clenched his hands into fists, backed off, and turned away. "Just fix your plane and go," he said. He wasn't lonely enough to break his solitude for pain. Not just yet.


End file.
